Bride of the Black Bear
by Adamantwrites
Summary: Adam, on his trip home from Montana, comes across an injured Shoshoni brave - and that is the beginning of a new adventure. Mild cursing, perhaps some violence and probably adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

**All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plots are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **I do need to add that I am quite aware that my last story (I experimented with both the plot and the OC) was not well-received by some and that's fine - I left negative reviews unless the reviewer denigrated me and my subject matter and said, well, "Trollish" things; those were deleted. But I recently received one - anonymously, of course so it was deleted since it seemed spiteful, that told me that someone said about me and my writing - I'm assuming it was on FB which I don't patronize - that my premises are faulty (not quite sure what was meant by that) and my characters aren't "quite right." (They may mean mentally - I don't really know! :-D ) Anyway, I don't mind criticism - just insults and directives to post elsewhere and not about the Cartwrights. But if you do choose to read this new offering, I hope you enjoy it. And let me know your mind!** **(Although that may be just asking for trouble.)**

 **Chapter 1: The Good Samaritan**

Up until I found the Indian, my trip was uneventful. I was heading home from Montana Territory after checking what was supposed to be prime stock. I say, 'supposed' to be because it wasn't. Enough said. I was passing through Utah – not in too much of a hurry since waiting for me on the Ponderosa was the acrid smell of singed hide and bawling calves awaiting castration.

The night and morning had been bitter cold – as had been all, both there and on the three days returning - but the day had warmed-up nicely and I was finding the ride home more pleasant than the trip up. And then I saw him, the Indian, dragging himself across the ground. I cursed under my breath.

There's a common belief that Indians have a sixth sense, that they know things before they're obvious, if game is near or an enemy is approaching. Well, it's bullshit. He didn't notice me until I was almost on top of him. At first, he was surprised, looking up from the dirt. Then his shoulders dropped and something akin to resignation came over his face; he dropped his head onto his arms. I guess he thought I was going to kill him.

I pulled up my horse off to the side and considered. Here was an Indian who was injured and from what I could determine, of the Shoshoni tribe since this was their territory. No horse was nearby or mine would have called to it. From all appearances, he was alone. I don't know why issues like this are difficult. I mean a man is injured and needs help and he was crawling, more than likely, toward his tribal village or hunting campsite. But I wanted to just go home and not have to tend to this Indian who, for all I knew, would die anyway. But a man is a man and if it was me in that position… It is a burden to own a conscience.

I dismounted and the Indian wearily raised his head again. Suddenly, as I approached him, my palms exposed to show I held no weapon, he made a small lurch forward – as if he could possible escape me. Then stopped and waited, I suppose for the bullet that would end his life.

"Speak English?" I asked. He stared at me. Now that I was closer, I could see that his right leg below the knee was at an odd angle, obviously badly broken although there was no blood. That meant the bone hadn't pushed through the skin. A good sign. "I'm going to try to help you." I stepped closer and then he flashed a knife he'd pulled out from under him. It must've been in a sheath at his waist – and it was a cruel-looking one. The handle was a scrimshaw whale tooth and the blade, of flashing steel.

Now that meant something. His tribe obviously had dealings with white men, probably trappers who exchanged coveted items for furs or women or anything else they wanted. Or this Indian had slit some unfortunate New England greenhorn's throat with the man's own knife - and kept it along with any stock and whatever else he wanted. And then there was the red, paisley bandana around his neck – that came from a white man too.

I backed up once he pulled that knife. The hell with him – all my charitable inclinations disappeared faster than the night's frost under the morning sun. I had done my Christian duty, stopped to assist a man in need but he didn't want my help. As my father once told me, "Never stay where you're not wanted."

"Okay, fine," I said, making the motion of wiping my hands together and then making a dismissive action toward him. I went to my horse and was about to mount-up when he called out something. Maybe he noticed the holster under the length of my field jacket. Maybe he noticed my rifle in its scabbard and realized I could easily kill him had I so wanted. Maybe he was in so much pain he was willing to take help from a white man. What I do know is that he showed me the knife and then tossed it a few feet from him. I paused, wishing he hadn't done it – now there was no reason, no self-justification for not helping him. Again, my father's voice in my head said, "Remember the Golden Rule, Adam, and you can't go wrong." I can now attest that yes, you can. Very wrong.

The Indian rolled on his back, grimacing, and I cautiously approached him. I kneeled at his feet and unlaced his legging and gently pulled it off. I say gently but the action must have been excruciating as he arched his back and clenched his jaw. The bone was grotesquely misaligned and I would have to snap it back into place. I'd done it for a valuable calf once but ended up having to shoot it anyway. As a boy, my father and I had to hold my younger brother, Hoss, down while old Doc Bentley snapped his broken arm back in place. Hoss screamed and nothing would calm him after except a dose of laudanum.

I motioned what I was going to do and after pointing to his leg, he nodded. I sat at his feet and grabbed his ankle with both hands. "I'm sorry that this is going to hurt so much but…" I took a few deep breaths and then, with one swift motion, I pulled. He tried to muffle his agony but the bone was straight again. I felt it with my hand, running it up and down the length of the bone.

Then I worked quickly, finding a few straight branches about a wrist's width. The Indian began uttering something – probably Shoshoni curses. Using my belt and one of the straps holding down my bedroll, I tied the branches to either side of his leg to keep it straight. Then I rested for what was ahead.

Yes, I had fixed his leg but now I had to take care of him and deliver him back to his tribe. Nothing good could possibly come from this – nothing. And I'd be late in returning home - if I even survived to do so. I just shook my head at my dilemma and couldn't help but laugh. Life is a joke in many ways – and the joke's always on us.

The Indian looked at me, made motion to his mouth, then moved his hand in a wavy motion. He was thirsty. I fetched my canteen and he pushed himself to a sitting position and with shaking hands, took it. He drank a good bit. Then handed it back. He smiled weakly and motioned to me.

"Hainji."

I had no idea what it meant but he smiled – at least it seemed a smile – his teeth showed. But maybe not. It was going to be a long evening and an even longer night.

I made camp and shared my food with him – beans and bread - and he seemed grateful although he ate little. But his presumed gratitude didn't persuade me to trust him and I kept his knife, tucking it into my saddlebags along with my shaving kit. I also tied-off my horse near my bedroll; I would hear if he tried to steal the animal in the night.

The Indian was wearing a buckskin shirt, breech cloth and leggings that reached to his moccasins, but it was going to be another cold night. And I could see he was becoming feverish. The sweat beads formed on his forehead and upper lip and he shivered; his eyes seemed to lose focus and he began to mumble. That was the last thing I needed.

I took one of my blankets and the canvas tarp and made a bed for him. I don't think he knew what the hell I was doing as he tried to struggle with me as I pulled him to it, but I managed to get him onto one side of the canvas, then tucked the blanket about him and pulled the tarp over folding it under him; he was swaddled like a newborn. He made for a comical "papoose".

By then I was sweating from all my exertions, but pulled my jacket collar up higher and my hat lower around my ears; it was becoming cold fast and by morning, there might very well be frost again, making the grass crisp under my horse's feet. I pulled my other bedroll blanket about me and sat down, leaning against a large spruce tree, cursing my bad luck.

In my life, on occasion, I've been shown the back of a man's hand but also kindness and generosity. I suppose it's when the cruelty outweighs the kindness that a man can ignore the suffering of others. And then, of course, there's my father. He always preached to my brothers and me that we should be "good Samaritans; when I was small, the only book my father carried other than the Farmer's Almanac, was the Bible. For bedtime stories, I was read parables and sections from the Old Testament that weren't too full of violence or sex – I read those myself once I learned how to read although it took me awhile to learn what "Begat" meant. When I became older and listened as he read _Genesis_ aloud to Hoss, I asked him who Cain married when he was sent away to the Land of Nod on the east of Eden if they were the only people in the world. After pausing, my father cleared his throat and said that I should ask the reverend after service that Sunday. The reverend told me I thought too much.

And thinking too much was what I was doing as I sat under that Colorado Spruce, holding my rifle close like lover. I closed my eyes and tried to empty my mind. I must have been successful because I jerked awake just as the eastern horizon began to glow; my horse was huffing. But the Indian was still sleeping, even snoring. My toes were icy in my boots, my breath visible, and my back hurt – stiff from the cold. I was miserable and the Indian was snug.

Such is life.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Hail the Hero**

I quickly went about building a fire and as I crouched before it while the coffee boiled and the thick bacon slices sizzled, I noticed the wetness from melting frost on my moustache and beard – the moisture in my breath, my head bowing as I slept, had caused the crystals to form. I had brought along my shaving kit but had yet to use it so you can well imagine how I looked with a three weeks' growth of beard. I also needed a haircut; I was looking, as my father often put it, like some cheap riverboat gambler with "fancy" curls over my collar. Had I known what was going to happen, I would have shaved my face and maybe even my whole head. It would have spared much pain.

I woke my Indian "friend" and offered him bacon and coffee. He spat out the coffee but greedily ate the bacon, licking the grease off his fingers. I fried some stale sourdough bread in the bacon grease while he watched and we shared it. I couldn't help but think of Hoss. When he was a child, he loved when we had bacon or sausage as Hop Sing would take the saved stale pieces of bread and pan-fry them in the grease, shaking some salt on them. Hoss loved that even more than biscuits and gravy. When he and I are traveling or on a drive, he still loves to wipe the hot grease from the pan with a slice of bread. I swear he'd lick it clean if he wouldn't fry his tongue – he'd then be tempted to eat it as well.

I saddled my horse, cleaned up the camp site, and between my efforts and his – once the Indian understood what I intended - we managed to get him up and into the saddle. But I held the reins. Tightly, wrapping them about my fingers. Now, it's not that I didn't trust him merely because he was an Indian although, once you've seen what Indians can do to a white man, it kinda sticks in your mind. I didn't want to be the one staked out in the sun with my eyelids sliced off or have my gut sliced open and suffer a slow death with the black flies swarming about me and crawling inside my insides to lay eggs. But he was an Indian and I was a white man and he might just kick my horse with his one good leg and take off.

I had taken the cartridges out of my rifle in case he was inspired to pull it from its scabbard and blast off the back of my head. So, I walked and he rode, heading in the direction he had been going. On occasion he called out and would point to veer left or right and bark out something in his dialect. I followed his orders although I found myself resenting him.

We were going along when the horse stopped, tried to back up and began to dance about, tossing its head and snuffing and pulling away.

"Whoa, boy," I said as I tried to settle down the animal. And then I heard it – the bear. I froze. A few yards ahead, smack dab in our path stood a black bear rearing on its hind legs. It roared and shook its head. If you've ever come upon a bear, heard its sound, smelled it, and seen it's maw, large, like a black cave, and edged with sharp teeth, you'll swear that you'd rather face the devil himself. A chill ran up my back and gripped my neck; my bowels turned to water. My thoughts went to my rifle but then, I remembered, it wasn't loaded. "Shit." I pulled my six-shooter and held desperately on to my horse with my other hand; the horse strained to break away, threatening to unseat the Indian who gripped the mane and saddle horn for his life. But I knew that if I released the reins, the horse would take off and I'd be left out there alone; soon, that bear would be using one of his claws to pick me out of his teeth and shitting me out in his scat. If worse came to worse, I'd sacrifice the horse but with the Indian in the saddle, that wasn't possible. I considered my hand gun but I'd be just as effective using a peashooter. I decided I had nothing to lose.

"Ho!" I bellowed, wildly waving my free hand. "Git! Git! Ho, bear! Git, you ugly sonovabitch! Git before I shoot your eyes out of your goddamn ugly head!"

Much to my amazement, the bear dropped to all fours, snuffed, seemed indecisive, swinging its head back and forth but waddled away into the trees, its fur sleek, shiny and rippling. Obviously, a well-fed bear. My horse slowly settled down and I patted its shoulder, speaking soothingly. The Indian raised one hand and nodded his head at me and made some pronouncement. I thought it might be some sort of benediction. And we continued on our way, the day warming up nicely.

Another few hours passed and I was about to take a rest and a piss, then catch lunch of hard tack and jerky when suddenly, we were surrounded by five Indian braves, all holding rifles on me. I dropped the reins and raised my hands to shoulder height. I considered my situation. Many Indians had rifles given to them in trades with trappers or stolen in raids on settlements. Nevertheless, ammunition is quickly exhausted. For all I could tell, all the rifles pointed at me were a bluff but I didn't think this was the time to gamble. And then the Indian sitting comfortably on my horse, took up the reins I had dropped and spoke to the others. One gingerly approached me, pushed back my trail jacket and struggled with removing my gun from the holster. He kept his eyes on me – as if I was foolish enough to try anything. But considering the possible consequence of being taken into their camp, lengthy torture by the squaws – being poked with sharp sticks, having my balls sliced off and tossed to the dogs – just little things for amusement's sake - I considered it might be better to have my chest blown open with a rifle shot right then and there.

Finally, after my standing still for what seemed an eternity, the brave realized that there was a trigger loop, unhooked it, and pulled out my gun. Then, motioning for me to go, I walked along, all of us following the wounded man on my horse. Now he led. I fancied what the animal would look like with Shoshoni symbols painted on it and a feather braided in its mane. It had served me well and was a damn good cow pony, able to turn so quickly that it's muzzle almost hit its ass.

I trudged along and after another hour or so, tribe members came out to meet us, all raising a hue and cry over the return of the Indian; he was obviously an important man. Finally, with the escort of women, running children and barking dogs, we entered the camp proper and more women and children came to the side of my horse who shied from all the hands that reached up to the rider, welcoming him back. Then they dropped away as the chief – I'm assuming it was the chief due to his dress and how the others deferred to him – approached. They exchanged words, my Indian friend gesturing and speaking as if he was relating some tale of an ancient hero; the people listened, silent. Not even a dog dared to bark. Everyone, Indian, white, Chinese – everyone loves to hear a story. The chief and all the others looked at me with, it seemed, awe. And as the "story" continued, they gasped a few times. My hope was that I was being given a good reckoning by the Indian I had rescued.

Apparently, I was because the chief came over and put out his arm. We grabbed each other's forearms firmly, he said something, and that made us friends – I hoped. I don't know how my Indian friend managed to dismount my horse but he did – no one came forth to help him but I don't think he would have allowed it anyway. Finally, he stood straight, weight on both legs. I suppose it expressed courage to the others, the ignoring of pain. He had fortitude and managed to walk to a tipi although it was awkward with his leg braced, clearing a path through the others like Moses parting the waters. I supposed his leg was going to be tended, as what looked like the shaman and two women entered the tipi after him. And now I became the focus of attention.

My horse was led away, which worried me as I knew how valued horses were, and I was led to the center of the camp where women fussed about me, serving me food – chunks of meat which tasted like venison, in a brown sauce, and corn cakes. As I sat, I was poured cups of some type of fermented liquid which I was loath to drink – but I did and it wasn't bad – a little sweet but it had a kick and burned all the way down my gullet. The women sat about, smiling and talking quietly as they watched me feast. And once I finished, they fussed about me more, talking among themselves, smiling and coyly laughing behind their hands, hesitating to make eye contact. Then one, an older woman with long grey hair, lines crisscrossing her cheeks and brow, deep-set lines beside her mouth, her earlobes elongated from heavy shell and stone earrings, touched my arm and then motioned to follow her. I did and the other women followed as well as did the children now that I was on the move. The men sat nearby, legs crossed, in deep discussion. I'm sure it was about me. The chief sat ram-rod straight and listened. I considered they may be contriving just how to kill me. And my mind started to churn with ideas on how to escape.

The old woman led me to a tipi and ushered me inside; it was a relatively small tipi and had a bed of sorts made of piled skins. A bowl of water was also beside it and a tall earthenware jar. It was, as I found out, full of clear, cool water. I was then left alone. I pulled off my jacket, lay it on the ground and tossed my hat on top of it. I looked about. If I had a knife, I could slit the skins and escape. But the knife was in my saddlebags as were my razor and my gun cleaning kit. I had been basically left helpless as a babe. But I was tired, weary and the drink made me groggy, so I lay down on the furs, and as I drifted off, I thought of how comfortable they were, how soft, how seductive, like pillowing one's head on a woman's breasts. And I considered that if I came out of this alive, I would first go to Virginia City before heading home to the Ponderosa and have a bath. I would sit in that steaming tub and enjoy the hot water, soaking away all the misery of this trip. All I'd need was a woman to scrub my back but I might just be able to manage that as well by pressing a few silver coins into the bucket boy's hand and sending him to fetch Miranda from the Sazerac; she'd come and plying a scrub brush – well, she's scrub me all over. Miranda has many talents. Then I would go to the barber and have a hair cut and a shave and a splash of Bay Rum instead of the usual Witch Hazel. And then, after changing into some clean clothes, I'd go visit Darla McMasters. And with the pleasant picture of a smiling, welcoming Darla, I fell asleep.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: A Ceremony**

A hand on my arm roused me and I shot up, my heart thumping; it was just the old Indian woman, my "personal" emissary. But now she had woven beads and shells into her steel-grey hair and wore a fringed dress, fur side out; it looked like bighorn sheepskins sewn together. Her eyes were still rheumy and her mouth caved in from lack of teeth, but she grinned, showing her gums and in a surprisingly deferential manner, she beckoned me to follow her. I put my hand to my holster to check on my gun — I had forgotten it was gone. So, standing, I put on my trail jacket but left my hat, and followed her out of the tipi, into the early night air, and to the clearing at the center of the camp where it seemed the whole tribe had gathered.

Over the years, I had heard stories of white men being made to run the gauntlet comprised of a double-row of young Indian boys who were learning expertise in weapons and the art of killing a man. It was practice for being a brave. And as the man ran between the rows, he was struck, stabbed, sliced and basically, tortured, having to run again and again until he fell and then the smaller children were left to their own devices to torment the enemy until his death. But the Shoshoni were sitting in two large circles, the men making up the inner circle, the chief sitting on some type of fur-covered dais above the others. My Indian friend was next to him but lower, reclining on a pile of skins, his injured leg straight in front of him; he seemed to be on the mend and nodded at me as I approached.

I have a healthy respect for Indians and their ways that's been learned with maturity and by interactions with the Paiutes and Bannock tribes back home. But as a child, I was terrified of ever seeing one. Many a time on the trip overland, the call would come down the line to keep the children inside the wagons and tell the women not to look. It meant we were passing by a horrific scene of mutilated bodies or scorched corpses of some previous solitary traveler, the wagon burned, or a homesteader who against advice, decided to settle in the middle of Indian territory. Those were the worst. But I would peek out and after, my poor, young soul shaken, would tell myself next time, I wouldn't peek – but each "next time" I did.

I would also overhear the trappers who often came into our night camp for a little company, a little news and some food cooked by someone other than their Indian "wives" who were always with them, tell tales about the "hostiles" they encountered. Once, a mangy-looking trapper held up his right hand and all his fingers were gone, only stubs to the last knuckle were left. He said one word: Comanches. I dreamed terrors that night, that I was being sliced away, bit by bit by an Indian brave, and woke up screaming. My father later said my screams were so piercing that the men ran from their beds to see what had happened.

But worst of all, I saw Inger, my brother Hoss' mother, shot in the chest by an arrow. The picture still rises up at times and haunts me, even as a man having lived through many personal "horrors". My whole childhood, Indians in general, were my "boogeyman". They peopled my nights when fears rose out of the surrounding darkness like a miasma.

I stared at the gathered Shoshoni and the old woman took a seat with the other women in the outer circle. I noticed they were wearing their finest – or so it seemed – the many deerskins beaded and decorated with elk's teeth, paint and fringe. The men wore eagle feathers in their hair – some, only one, some, two, some, three or more. Their faces were painted and I could smell roasting meat on the flat plates that were being passed about. It seemed that this was a party of sorts and I was the guest of honor.

The chief stood and lowered his head almost imperceptibly in my direction. I imitated the action in response. He motioned in a sweeping manner, for me to approach. I did and then he had me sit on the other side of him. But he still stood and putting out his hands, made a pronouncement. His voice was solemn but I noticed the women lowering their eyes and a small murmur passed among them. Then, the festivities began.

I didn't know what they were celebrating. It could have been for me as a way of thanks for bringing the Indian brave home. He may have been the son of the chief or another person of high rank. Or it could have been a celebration of something not related to that at all, just a lunar event or a celebration of nature and it coincided with my being in camp so I was allowed to join. Or, as in many ancient cultures, I was being feted and glorified before the "sacrifice." The sacrificial "lamb" should go willingly to the shaman's knife, baring his throat, so I drank very little from the many jars passed among the men; I couldn't afford to be groggy from what I decided, was a type of fermented corn drink, obviously mixed with a little honey for sweetness. The Bannocks also make a similar drink but theirs is sour, more akin to homesteaders' "shine". But the meat was delicious, roasted to a medium tenderness and savory; I was surprised.

As we sat and drank and ate, the women danced in a circle; the drums were banged and voices joined in deep, sonorous songs. The women danced in individual circles and then the circle would move clock-wise and then counter clockwise and other permutations of a circle. They were all wearing their best, as I said. The chief touched my arm and I looked at him. He pointed to the women dancing and I looked; it seemed the object was a young girl who danced lightly, her twin plaits swinging in rhythm with her lilting steps. He smiled and said something to me, nodding. I thought it polite to smile in return and nodded my head; he grinned widely, turned to the Indian I had rescued and said something. They both grinned and smiled and I became suspicious. Were they going to ask me to dance with the women? That would be a prime insult as Indian men didn't dance with the women. But if I were just an ignorant white man who had "allowed" myself to be taken captive, at least in their eyes, it would be quite the joke.

After the women's dance which went on for almost a half-hour, singular dancers in costumes of sorts, came out and danced alone in the middle, their feet stomping and kicking in time with the drums, chants arising. Then, in what seemed a mime of a type, a man in a bear costume, the empty skull over his head and the skin draping over his body and attached by thongs to his wrists, entered into the ring but before he did, he ran about the periphery and "roared" at the children who shrieked and laughed and ran; the adults smiled and laughed at the game, probably remembering when, as children, they were chased about by an unreal bear or cougar. Once in the circle's middle, other dancers joined the "bear" and this type of thing went on for hours. Food was shared and more of the intoxicating grog was drunk by the men. The more they drank, the more they laughed and called out jibes – or so it seemed – to the more comical dancing figures who came later. At least, to my relief, this wasn't a war dance.

The moon was high overhead when the chief rose again and all drumming, all dancing, stopped. He beckoned me to rise. I felt the moment of truth had finally come and the people fell silent. My mind swirled. I had no weapon and I would easily be caught if I ran, although it seemed most of the braves were so unsteady on their feet they would be hard-put to catch me – at least then. But once sober, I would quickly be tracked. So, I stood. He nodded, not to me but to his people and a young girl in a doeskin dress decorated with intricate beading and fringe, the same girl he had earlier singled out, her arms and wrists covered with crude Spanish silver bracelets and wearing a bone choker, approached, her gaze modestly down. The chief pulled a heavy necklace of bear claws from about his neck and handed it to her. She turned to me, not yet looking up at me. I looked to my Indian "friend" and then to the chief; they both nodded. I lowered my head and she slipped the necklace over my head and finally glanced up at me. She had large, dark eyes and quickly dropped her gaze and backed away. Once she went back to the women's circle, the women surrounded her, rushing her away among a hum of voices that sounded like a hive of bees. The chief put out his arm again and after hesitating for a moment, I clasped it and he placed his other hand on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring thump. Then it was over and the others slowly made their way to their tipis. I headed to mine. I had decided that after everyone was asleep, I'd search for my horse and get the hell out of there before something happened. And with all they had drunk, at least the men, the camp would soon be silent. My only concern was the dogs.

I pushed open the flap to my tipi and a fire had been built in the center, the smoke drifting up through the opening. A bear fat lamp was also burning. My fur bed looked to have been made a bit higher. My hat was lying where I left it. I pulled the necklace off over my head and dropped it near my hat; it clicked as the claws fell against one another. I lay down, leaving my boots and jacket on and pulling one of the furs over me. I swear, that pile of furs was more comfortable than my own bed. The pull of relaxation and sleep was seductive and I felt my will lessen, so I pushed aside the fur and sat up. I'd have to stay awake somehow. So, I thought about tomorrow and wondered what would be done to me. I reached down and picked up the bear claw necklace, studying it in the dim light. Each curved claw had been drilled and a thin leather strip had been strung through them, a blue stone bead between each claw. I decided the stone was turquoise, highly valued by the Paiutes so probably by the Shoshoni as well. They called it "sky stone".

The flap of my tipi opened and it was the old woman, grinning her toothless smile, holding a jar in one hand while a heavy blanket lay over her shoulders. I wondered what she wanted but only fleetingly as she pulled in behind her the same girl who had slung the necklace over my neck, her head modestly bowed, a blanket wrapped about her. I was afraid I knew why she was there; I was probably to be given one night of pleasure before I was slaughtered. The Romans did the same for their gladiators.

The old woman talked, slightly slurring her words, spittle at the corners of her mouth, while she pulled the girl closer. When they were standing by my bed, the old woman moved to the back of the girl and pulled off the blanket, letting it drop about the girl's small feet. And there she stood, slender and silent and tawny. I wished I had never seen her.

"No, no, no, no," I said, standing and waved my hands in front of me, shaking my head. "No, I don't need a woman, thank you." I swept the blanket up from the floor of the tipi and pushed it at the girl who grasped it, looking surprised. "I don't plan on staying anyway, so I thank you very much but please, take her away." I grabbed the girl's hand and then the old woman's and put them together. "Take her with you, if you don't mind, you old, toothless, harridan. Take her with you before I concede to my baser side and ravish her firm flesh. How old is she anyway? Fourteen? Sixteen? Eighteen? Would you take her and go? You'd be doing all three of us a favor – her the most."

The old woman laughed, a deep, rough cackle as if she was gargling pebbles and I wondered if by some chance, she understood English after all. But she only gently pushed the girl toward me who stood with her head bowed, waiting. Then smiling at me, the lecherous old woman walked away but only as far as the other side of the fire where she sat with her jug, apparently, prepared to watch and drink. Damn it, I was probably married! That must be it and if I hadn't been so intent on believing that I was to be killed, I would have seen it. I was a damn fool.

I looked at the girl who had now abandoned the blanket and crawled onto the furs, snuggling under them. She turned her face away and lay still. She was my bride – or at least a woman given to me. She must be my reward for my bravery in saving the Indian on the trail. And I supposed the old woman was there…I didn't know. Was she to see if I treated the girl well? To make certain I didn't strangle her? To witness the act? Damn.

I sat on the end of the furs – the girl's feet didn't reach that far – and looked across at the old woman who still smiled, showing her gums. Then she took a swig from the jar. I smelled the same thing that I had at the celebrations, a pungent odor of corn beer. So, I began to sing. I kept my eyes directly off the girl but I could see she turned her head and was watching me. The old women looked puzzled, but then, for all the old woman knew, this could be a white man's tradition, to serenade his virgin bride before the defloration. And it would buy me time. So, the old woman finally smiled and drank and I sang, low and slowly:

 _Down in the valley,_

 _The valley so low,_

 _Hang your head over,_

 _Hear the wind blow._

 _Hear the wind blow, dear,_

 _Hear the wind blow._

 _Hang your head over,_

 _Hear the wind blow…_

As I sang, the girl sat up, her plaits dropping over her small breasts, and she seemed intrigued by my singing, so unlike the manner of Indian songs. So, I continued. And after that song, I sang some hymns and any other song that came into my head as long as it was soothing, while the jug went again and again to the old woman's lips until finally, her head drooped over her chest and the jug dropped from her hand and she was asleep.

I stood up and turning to the girl, put my finger to my lips – a universal gesture, I hoped, for quiet. The girl looked at me wide-eyed and I prayed that she would remain silent. I leaned over the bed and gently pushed down on her shoulders until she lay down. I tucked the furs about her. She had rounded cheeks which may have given the impression she was younger than she was, but she was lovely, her skin smooth as the inside of buckskin. But I didn't want anything to do with her.

"Now, you go to sleep. Okay? I have things to do and you're not one of them. You certainly are a beautiful girl but too young for me. You'll make some brave a wonderful wife, I'm sure, and have many papooses." I patted her head the way one would a child. "Now go to sleep so I can find my horse or steal one of yours and sneak out of camp."

But she didn't. Her eyes stayed on me. I picked up my hat and started to leave but she was quickly on my heels. "Look…" I turned and she almost smiled, looking up at me. She reached up and touched my face, the roughness of my beard and whispered something that sounded like an endearment. "Oh, for the love of…" She was going to follow me out of the tipi and apparently, anywhere and everywhere else I was going. "Okay, okay. We'll go lie down but I'm not touching you. And once you're asleep, well…I may as well say goodbye now."

I went back to the pile of furs and tossed my hat on the floor. She crawled onto the furs and I couldn't help but smile at her lack of shyness, of self-consciousness. She moved under the furs and flipped them back, indicating the space for me. I sighed. Still fully clothed and still with my boots on, I lay down beside her but turned my back. A person can't be more obvious in their rejection of another. But she was young and ignorant of men's ways – at least of white men's. I felt her curl up against my back despite the fact that I stank after being on the trail for so long. And next I knew, it was morning - the drunken snores of the old woman who was sprawled out on the floor, waking me. And the girl moved sleepily against my back, her small arms about me.

And in the warmth of the furs protecting us from the cold and with her small body next to mine, well, things could be worse.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: An Embarrassment of Riches**

The girl moved against me, sleepily murmuring, her hand reaching for me – and I was suddenly wide-awake and out of bed. I glanced to the pile of furs and she looked at me, smiling, her eyes soft with sleep. I quickly walked out of the tipi; I needed to move away from her warmth and accessibility. In the light of early morning, the Shoshoni were stirring in ordinary ways – cook fires going, the odor of corn and roast meat, dogs searching for scraps and the women going about on daily business in the early light. A few women glanced at me and quickly ducked their heads and I swear they were snickering behind their hands. But it didn't matter; I had a full bladder to deal with so I walked toward the surrounding woods.

I was surprised no one had bothered to stop me from leaving the ring of tipis – I kept expecting it - but no one did. I took care of my business and looked about. No one was near so I crept about the perimeter of the camp. I heard the horses before I saw them. They were herded into a group, a remuda of sorts. I stepped back into the trees, watching. A few Indian braves were trying to saddle my horse while it ate from a basket – more than likely corn. But the braves weren't having much luck with the cinch and the belly band. But at least now I knew where my horse was and could slip out and leave once the Indian braves had mounted up and left for the day's hunting. And if one rode my horse, well, I'd take any animal that was left.

I made my way back to my tipi – not all that easy since they aren't particularly distinctive. I needed my hat and gun belt and felt I should make some leave-taking of the young girl. I should say something – not that she would understand, but I felt guilty with no idea why. As I said, it's that burdensome conscience of mine rearing its head. I pushed aside the tipi flap and was surprised. The old woman was now awake, another squaw helping her walk as she swayed and pressed a hand to her head; they shuffled past me as I held aside the flap. And once opposite me, the old woman smiled and cackled, sleep matter in the corners of her eyes. She said something and from the way the other woman acted, grinning and chuckling, I think it was obscene. I'm sure it was about me and the girl. And after they passed through the opening and I let the flap fall, I faced the girl. She was dressed in another buckskin shift, the silver bracelets back on her slender wrists, the animal-bone choker about her small neck, many other bead and shell necklaces adorning her. Long looped beaded earrings almost reached her shoulders. Her hair had been freshly plaited, a red stripe painted along the part, and the woven blanket, the one she had worn draped about her the night before, was lying neatly on the ground. The furs were gone.

Instead of the many furs, a single fur rug was on the ground. Bowls of food were spread on it. Roasted meat, fried corn similar to hoecakes, some type of roasted greens, and a jug of water as well as a bowl of water for washing. She kneeled on the fur and waited for me. So, I washed my hands and ate. It seemed the best choice at the time. After all, it might be my last meal for a long time or my last meal.

"Look," I said as I tasted the corn cake, noticing its slight sweetness and grainy texture, "I'm leaving today. I saw where the horses are kept and it looks as if mine is being made ready. I'm hoping it's a good sign, that I'm being sent on my way. If it's not, I'm leaving anyway – one way or another. And I won't be able to take you so don't ask."

She said nothing, only offered me more of the roast meat. She was a pretty little thing – I had to admit that - and while I ate, she picked the bear claw necklace off the rug and leaning over, placed it back about my neck. I could smell her skin and hair, a soft scent, like flower oil. She sat and watched in silence while I ate. The flap opened, the morning cold entering as well, and I turned to see a young brave. He said something to the girl, sharp and curt, and she stood, took up the blanket, wrapped it over her shoulders, and reluctantly left, her head down. But before she stepped out, as she ducked her head, she glanced back at me and smiled. Just a hint of a smile but a smile nonetheless.

The brave motioned for me to leave the tipi, to go ahead of him. This was it. I picked up my hat and gun belt, put both on and moved past him and out. My horse stood, waiting, a young boy holding the reins. The tribe was good-sized, having maybe fifty, sixty adults of various ages, and it seemed they were all waiting to see me ride out. My Indian friend was standing, supported by a squaw. As for my horse, the puzzle of the bridle, the bit and the buckled straps had apparently been easily solved; it all looked proper. But the saddle… I passed my hand over my horse's withers and it nickered, swinging its head to see who I was. I saw my canteen was slung over the saddle horn, my saddlebags still tied on with their thongs, and my rifle was back in its scabbard. I wondered if my ammunition was still there, safely tucked inside my saddlebags or if they had confiscated it. They wouldn't have considered it theft. Ownership was a spurious concept in many Indian beliefs.

The chief approached, handing me my gun. Obviously, I was trusted not to harm anyone and I thanked him for returning my weapon – I think my sentiment was understood, and I slid it back into the holster, replacing the trigger loop; I'd check later to see if it was still loaded. I checked the cinch, talking the whole time, just telling them what I was doing, how the horse's front legs have to be pulled so the skin isn't pinched. I adjusted a few of the trappings while saying what a nice time I had had, thanking them, one and all, for the feast and the entertainment and the comfortable accommodations, but I really had to leave.

I put my hand out to the chief. I was set on leaving but wasn't certain they'd let me although everything pointed to that. He clasped my upper arm and I, his, and then, with some basic communication that seemed friendly enough, we released each other's arms and I mounted my horse. The boy still held my reins and I was about to reach for them when the chief put up his hand and I saw everyone look behind me.

"Oh…I don't need this," I mumbled. The Indian girl, wrapped in her blanket, was riding an appaloosa pulling a travois. Furs and blankets were loaded onto it and packets of probable food stuff and a few household items – jars and stone cups - carefully placed inside a reed basket – along with just about everything she'd need to set up housekeeping, all the riches of a dowry. The people had showered her – showered us – with valuable items. And she was coming with me. I considered rejecting her, trying to tell them that I not only didn't want to be slowed down by a travois, but I didn't want her as well. But I was so close to getting away. I told myself that eventually, I could find a place for her - somewhere. I'd traveled in worse company than a young girl, but what irked me the most was that now I would be responsible for her. I'd have to protect her and see she was safe. I said nothing but turned my horse in the direction of Nevada and home. And as we rode out, the Shoshoni parting on either side, I was touched by the tears from the women. The old woman who had been so eager to hand the girl over to me, sobbed aloud, keening and swaying. But once we were a hundred yards or so out, I picked up pace and the appaloosa stepped up as well; I felt overwhelming relief as I left the camp behind. I wondered how many more years they would exist before another tribe slaughtered them or the Army decided to relocate them.

We traveled the whole morning and into the early afternoon. Finally, we stopped and I offered my canteen to the girl who still sat the horse. She took it from me and drank. Then I did.

"You know, I need to find someplace that'll take you," I said as I replaced the cap. "I could take you to a Jesuit mission. They'd know what to do with you – might even speak Shoshoni there. But for the time, we're stuck with each other. Now I'm going to take care of some personal matters so if you want to get down and stretch your legs a bit…" I put up my hands and she slipped off her horse into my embrace. I set her down and quickly distanced myself. "You may want to eat a little something." She stared at me. "Food. Eat." I pantomimed and she nodded and went to the travois. "I'll be gone just a few minutes."

I started off but she quickly abandoned the travois and came tripping after me, almost stepping on my heels, she was so close.

"No," I said, more harshly than I intended as she was taken by surprise and backed up. Her dark eyes filled with tears. I wouldn't expect a Shoshoni woman to weep over a small slight like that. From my experiences with the Indians, squaws did as they were told and when they wept, it was with great abandonment, often including self-mutilation, and over death of a loved one – a child or mate or close relative – not over a reprimand. But she was young and delicate. Perhaps she had been a favored child in her family and never incurred wrath from anyone. What the hell did I know about any of it. I didn't even know her name. So, like a fool, I poked my chest and said, "I'm Adam." Then I pointed at her. "Who are you? What's your name?"

She stared at me. "Look, whoever you are," I said, as I gently took her arm, "You stay here." I had walked her back to the horses. "Stay here. I'm going to take a piss so you stay here until I get back. Understand?" She stared at me. "Now, stay." I turned to walk away and she started to follow me. "NO! Stay!" I put out my hand and she backed up. "Don't follow me!" I hated to talk so roughly but it worked; she stayed until I returned. And when she saw me, her whole body relaxed and she smiled. Then she happily went about preparing food. While I checked and loaded my hand gun and rifle.

It was almost dark when I finally stopped for the night. As I unsaddled my horse and tethered it for the night, she quickly went about unloading part of the travois. I helped her and after the furs were almost completely unloaded, I unlaced the travois and led her horse to the patch of grass where my horse was feeding. For all I knew, there was horse feed in the items we had but I was too weary to care.

At camp, the girl was gathering wood to make a fire. She was quick and lively and had a small pile ready to be lit, larger pieces beside it, waiting for the flames. She reached into a pouch tied at her waist and pulled out some flint but I put my hand over hers. She looked up at me.

"I have an easier way." I flipped open one saddlebag and took out a box of matches. Then I crouched over the pile of kindling while she bent near me and watched, her shiny, black plaits swinging near my face, her subtle scent surrounding me as I struck a match. It sparked, sputtered, and flared. She made a sound of amazement and I had to chuckle at her round eyes, her open mouth. I put the match to the wood and it took, slowly flaming up. She was delighted, clapping her hands and then jabbered on. Obviously, she was impressed. She put out her hand and checking that the match head was no longer hot, I dropped it into her palm. She looked quizzical, ran it across her palm. She was expecting it to flame and looked so disappointed that I laughed. She looked at me and then she laughed as well and saying something, tossed the match into the fire.

I made coffee while she watched and then I fried bacon after scraping off some mold that had formed along the rind. We ate the thick bacon strips and she pulled out some corn cakes and we dipped them into the hot grease. And I talked. I told her of my family – my father, Hoss and Joe. I talked about the Ponderosa, how big it was and how we had timbering, cattle and mining. She listened and then she said something. It seemed a question although with the Indian dialects, it's hard to tell.

"I don't know what you want," I said. She said it again. And then she made a warbling sound. She wanted me to sing. I grinned.

"You want a song, do you?" She smiled and nodded although she had no idea what I said. So, I did. I sang livelier songs than I had trying to lull the old woman to sleep. I serenaded her with "Cindy," "Shady Grove," "Oh my Darlin', Clementine," and then I sang her a love song – "Shenandoah," about a white trader who loves the chief's daughter. It's good she didn't understand the lyrics or she may have thought I was referring to her:

The white man loved the Indian maiden,

Away you rolling river.

With notions his canoe was laden.

Ah-ha, I'm bound away, 'Cross the wide Missouri.

"O, Shenandoah, I love your daughter,

Away you rolling river.

I'll take her 'cross yon rolling water."

Ah-ha, I'm bound away, 'Cross the wide Missouri…

We sat in silence for a few moments and then I almost shook myself alert like a dog does. I quickly stood and she did as well.

"I'm bedding down. I suppose you can sleep in the furs. If you want I'll make your bed." She watched me as I went to the furs and took a few, laying them by the fire. She stopped me, saying something in Shoshoni and smiling, she quickly arranged a bed of the furs, going to the pile for a few more. Then she slipped off the blanket about her, pulled off the necklaces, bracelets and earrings, moccasins – and lastly, her shift. And naked as the day she was born, she crawled between the furs and looked expectantly up at me.

"Oh, no, no, no. Not again. We're alone and I'm not going to…" I looked down on her. She was so trusting. I had no idea what she was thinking. Did she even know what I could do to her? How I could mistreat her were I so inclined that way? What if I had been some rough trapper who'd laugh while she cried underneath him as he ravaged her, or a man who felt that Indians were savages and should be treated with savagery in return? That an Indian woman was to be ridden like an animal and inflicted to various humiliations? But she trusted me for some odd reason.

I crouched down and built up the fire, carefully waiting while each large branch took. Then I stood and unbuckled my gun belt, dropping it close to the furs. I went to where my saddle lay and slid my rifle out of its scabbard. I sighed.

So, I strode over to the piled of furs and took off my hat. I leaned down and picked up the blanket and staying on top of the furs, I lay down beside her and pulled her blanket about me, the odor of her skin filling my head. I tucked the rifle next to me. She moved closer but the furs still separated us. And oddly, I was reminded of the times when Joe was little and would wake with nightmares. He would always come to my room and I would let him in my bed. He would snuggle so close I couldn't have peeled him off. "Monsters can't get me here," he would say. "They don't get under bigger people's beds and reach up and pull you underneath where it's dark."

Now, here in the dark of night, the sky overhead and the nearby woods looming, I was the "bigger" person. This girl was young and away from her family, her tribe, her home, all she knew - and alone with a strange man. We were sleeping in the open and animal cries occasionally shattered the air. She was afraid. So, I turned to face her and she looked at me with her big, dark eyes and then moved closer and tucked her head under my chin. And I felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. This was going to be harder than I thought. I found I cared what would happen to her and that would be my Achilles heel.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: A Tale is Told**

Once we reached McVee's Trading Post, we were only a day from the Ponderosa. I had kept away from the main routes to avoid any possible unpleasantness from other travelers and had the girl place all her jewelry in my bedroll; it would be safe there; I don't know that she understood my fear of thieves. When I went to take off the bear claw necklace she protested, putting out her small hands. I left it on.

The sprawling building was of pine logs and had a lengthy porch lined with benches. As usual, a few Indians were sitting outside, wrapped in their blankets and drinking the "payment" for the jewelry or furs they had 'sold" to McVee. The trading post was a necessity for the area. Homesteaders and a few wagon trains heading further west stopped at McVee's and he shared the most recent news, the going price for acreage, what the army was up to, the latest on hostiles thereabouts, and sold them Indian blankets, lanterns, sewing notions, stoves, and just about anything else they might need. For some unknown reason, McVee had kept the trading post for almost twenty years so far and had only been once attacked by Indians, the place burning half down. He rebuilt and nothing of the sort happened again. And no passing trapper or traveler had attempted to murder him – although a few had tried to purloin an item or two. But McVee always kept a few loaded guns under the counter and under the guise of being relaxed, always watched everyone who rode up, having a huge window in the front of the store although it was so coated with dust and fly speck, it's a wonder even daylight could get through.

"Well, Adam Cartwright, glad to see you." McVee offered his huge hand and I shook it. He glanced at the girl who had followed me and now stood a step or two behind me. "Saw you two ride up. Got yourself a blanket now, do you? And a pretty one at that. Shoshoni?"

I knew what he meant – Indian "wives" were often called "blankets". It had a double meaning as many terms do. It referred to the blankets that Indian women always wore draped about their shoulders and also for the fact that she kept the man warm at night.

"Shoshoni, but she's not my wife. You speak any Shoshoni?" In the past, I had often heard him talk to various Indians, dickering over prices as he examined the blankets or pottery that a squaw had spent hours weaving or creating. Every so often, Indians would bring in silver jewelry or strings of beads and he would hold them up and turn them this way and that as If he knew anything about the matter. The only time he was wary was if an Indian brought in something that may have been taken in a raid on a homesteader. But fortunately for McVee, he never let his conscience interfere with a good deal.

"I can speak some Shoshoni – enough to make a bargain where everybody ends up happy. It's a lot like Bannock. You want to sell them furs on that travois? They look to be good unless the bottom ones are mangy." He craned his neck to see about us. "Wolf pelt…bear fur, a few deer skins…give you a good price for 'em."

It hadn't occurred to me to sell them but now I saw a way that the girl could have some money. I don't know what I thought she would do with the money but a few dollars would do her a helluva lot more good than some animal furs.

"Maybe, but… Give me a whiskey, would you?"

"Sure." He grinned at the girl and I noticed she shyly ducked her head and moved closer to me. I waited while McVee poured me a glass and placed it in front of me. The girl looked about the place with wide eyes but she wouldn't leave my side. I slapped two-bits on the counter. McVee swept the coins up and pocketed them. I swallowed the whole shot.

"Will you ask her some questions for me?"

"For free?" he asked me, one brow raised.

"Since when weren't you more than willing to talk off a man's ear for nothing?"

He laughed so loudly that the girl was startled.

"Guess you're right. Now what do you want me to ask?"

I reached for the girl and gently pulled her up to the counter. She resisted and it entered my mind that she might think I was giving her to McVee.

"Tell her I'm not leaving her here, would you? Just to let her know."

"She could do worse than me," McVee said, grinning and showing some missing teeth. He once told Hoss he'd lost a few teeth in fights and half his bottom teeth when his wife, who was buried behind the building, hit him in the face with a cast iron frypan when, during an argument, he said he was going to trade her to the Bannocks for a squaw; he still missed his wife every day.

He said something to the girl and I sensed her relax a bit. "Ask her her name." I waited while he asked. She brightened at hearing the language and eagerly replied, "Kopakashe."

McVee said something else and I heard my name – he pointed to me. He had obviously told her my name and something more as she blushed and smiled shyly at me, saying something. McVee grinned at me. "You heard her name – and if my memory's any good, and since I'm sober, it probably is, her name means "Flashing Eyes. A damn good name – named after the way a bear's fur shimmers in the sunlight. She asked me what your name means and I said 'The First Man'. I think she's impressed."

"Thanks – but that's not what I need right now. Ask her how old she is."

McVee did, or the equivalent – I can't say exactly and hoped to hell he was passing on my questions properly. He turned to me, inclining his head to the girl. "Says she was born in the year of the great rains when the waters swallowed the land."

"When was that?" I tried to remember. While I was away at school, I remembered something in one of my father's letters about losing some cattle in a flash flood and afterwards, finding drowned carcasses all covered with buzzards and stinking up the countryside. The smell of a decomposing animal hangs in the air – its not something a man ever forgets. But that was only about eight years ago.

"Well," McVee said, scrunching up his brow, his face taking on a pained expression as if it hurt to think. "Let's see…my wife died from fever that came with the floods and that was nigh onto seventeen years back. I'm guessing she's 16 - 17 at most."

"Oh, hell..." I mumbled. "Damn young but not as young as I feared."

"Nah, boy, she ain't too young. Hell, I seen trappers and buffalo hunters come in with 'blankets' that are no more'n 10 or 12. The only thing that surprises me is why she ain't already joined to some young buck; she's old enough and fine enough. That's some valuable doeskin dress she's wearing too. And those beads and fringe – well-done by some old squaw who knows her stuff. Might be she beaded them herself."

"Ask her then, ask her why she's not yet married. I'd be interested," I said and I put out my glass. McVee poured me another shot of cheap whiskey and said something to the girl which she eagerly answered. He leaned on the counter and listened while she rapidly spoke, gesticulating and motioning with her hands. And often she would glance at me, pause, and then continue. Every so often, McVee would look at me, grinning. Finally, after a few minutes, the girl, Kopakashe, stopped and dropped her eyes.

"Well, well," he said to me. "How's it feel to be a deity, Adam?'

"What?"

McVee chuckled. Then poured me another. "On the house. I've got one helluva story to tell you and you might need fortifyin'. How 'bout I give your bride something to eat? I got some sweet biscuits. And I got some milk – got a cow and calf out back. A homesteader traded them both for a cook stove. I was gonna have me some fresh beef but decided to keep her for milk and butter until she dries up. Then I'll have a feast and slaughter 'em both."

While Kopakashe nibbled at some biscuits and milk, McVee, grinning, told me what she had said:

"Seems the night before she was born, a huge black bear come into their camp and tore everything up like he was looking for something – tossed everything around and tore down all the tipis – just destroyed the place. The medicine man was the only one to stay in the camp – he stood facing the animal, chanting. Then, in a trance of some type – she's not too clear about that - he heard the bear talking – it was a spirit bear. It said it was looking for its bride, for its wife; she was supposed to be born and he wanted to take her back with him. But the medicine man told the bear that they were human and no bear could take a human as his wife, especially one that wasn't grown. The bear finally said he would return for his bride once she was old enough and when that time came, he would take the shape of a man. You know, they believe that spirit animals can take on human form. The bear said the girl-child who would be born next was to be his bride – his and no other's. If she wouldn't be waiting for him when he returned, the bear said he'd destroy the camp and all the people.

"The medicine man asked how they would know 'im if he looked like any other man. The bear said that he would take human form but would still be bear-like, covered in fur. The other bears would recognize him and do his bidding even though he had changed form. Well, she was born the following day and as she grew up, she was told that she would marry the great spirit bear who had come in search for her years ago –a great bear, greater than any other – and he would take the shape of a man. Seems she's been waiting on you all this time, not being 'lowed any other husband."

"That's ridiculous." I knew about Indian beliefs, had many dealings with the Paiutes and the Bannocks who lived around the Ponderosa, knew about animal totems and spirit animals but for anyone to think I was a bear taking human form – I just shook my head.

McVee laughed. "That's what you get for being as damned hairy as Esau in the Bible. Oh, and I forgot something else – now this here'll top everything – as long as she's married to the bear, meaning you, her people will do well, what they call 'prospering' – leastways, that's the meaning of what she said. Otherwise, she brings shame and death upon her people. You got quite a bit riding on your shoulders – a whole Shoshoni tribe."

I looked at her as she ate the sweet biscuits. How could she believe I was a bear? Believe such twaddle? But I knew how; the same way people all over the world believe whatever they have heard since childhood, that there is one god or multiple gods, that some gods have animal heads and some are vindictive and cruel while others are benign and gracious. Was a bear taking human form so strange after all? But me?

"Why is her part painted red? Ask her that?"

"Oh, I know that – don't need to ask her. It's for, what's that word – having to do with planting in good soil – you know… oh, yeah, fertility." McVee grinned even wider. "Since she's your wife – and you're the black bear - I guess it's to make sure you give her a whole goddamn litter of bear cubs!" He laughed again and I wanted to knock out his few remaining teeth.

"Tell her she can have whatever she wants in the store," I said. I wanted to keep Kopakashe happy while I considered how I could be rid of her. "If you want to buy any of the furs, come see which ones you want. I need some for sleeping, but any of the rest you can buy."

"Oh," he said with a sly wink, "you like bundling up with her in them furs, don't you? Nice and soft under a bare ass."

"Shut the hell up, McVee, and tell her to pick what she wants – I'll pay."

Kopakashe brightened when McVee told her I would pay for whatever she wanted. She didn't know where to start. Reminded me of when Hoss was little and Pa would give us each ten cents to buy candy. Hoss could never choose and would just stare at the glass jars, open-mouthed. I would try to tell him what candy he could get the most of for his money but he was too enchanted by colors and shapes to make a decision.

Once we were out at the travois, McVee tried to act as if the furs were ordinary, but I knew that he knew they weren't; they would bring top dollar – or should.

"I don't know, Adam," McVee said scratching his head above his left ear. "Furs…so many trappers come through here…I mean I can buy furs dirt cheap…"

"Fine. If you don't want them…" I set about to tie them back down.

"Now, Adam, I didn't say that." He put a huge paw on my arm. "I suppose since you're a newly-wed…."

"Kiss my ass, McVee," I said. He only laughed and began pulling out the furs he wanted, holding them up and examining them.

Once he had his pile of furs, he asked me about the necklace I wore. "Give you five dollars for that. Bear claws are a talisman – give power to a man."

I reached up and absent-mindedly touched it and thought of Kopakashe. "Then why would I want to sell it?"

After all that, we quickly took care of business. I didn't want to be there much longer in case some crude buffalo hunter with an eye for young squaws came by. I'd more than likely have to fight for her then, and the prospect I would win was dim at best.

Kopakashe chose a pink ditsy-print blouse. She showed it to me, holding it up, and I asked her about a skirt - as if she spoke English. "Tell her, McVee. Tell her she needs a skirt." I didn't like the idea of her wanting white women's clothing – for some reason it rubbed me the wrong way. It made me sad that she could possibly think that a cotton blouse was preferable to or more beautiful than the soft doeskin dress she wore. I pushed my feelings aside.

McVee pulled out a blue skirt made of some simple cloth and held it up to her. Then he rolled it up and gave it to her. She smiled like a child given a birthday gift and held the two pieces of clothing next to her, smiling shyly at me.

"And wrap up a few of the sweet biscuits," I said.

He tossed a packet in for free and told me, by way of leaving, to be kind to her – not to be like most men who had 'blankets'.

"I don't know I'd treat one any better than most men," McVee said, "but I'd expect more from a Cartwright. One thing about squaws though, they do what they're told. Now whether that's good or bad, I don't rightly know."

"Yeah," I said, picking up the packet and making to leave, Kopakashe behind me with her white woman treasures.

"Oh, and Adam, tell your Pa hello for me. And congratulations on your wife."

I didn't even turn back to see him; I knew he was smirking.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N In researching a bit before writing, I found that an alternate spelling for Shoshone is Shoshoni and decided to go with that spelling. The language is "Shoshoni" and the tribe is also referred to as The Snake People. There is also a bit of quibbling about whether the plural is Shoshones or simply, Shoshoni which can be either singular or plural.**

 **Chapter 6: Voice from the Shadows**

We were on the Ponderosa, just plodding on, the travois dragging in the dirt of the familiar road, and only a half hour or so away from the house. I was going over in my head how I would explain away Kopakashe to my family and anticipating their probable responses but it was like trying to swat attacking bees, there were so many possibilities. And where would she sleep? Would she like Hop Sing's cooking? Would she be content to stay inside or would she prefer snuggling up in the bear furs under the sky? And would she want me with her? I, so much, wanted to be done with Kopakashe, to have someone come and take her away to something better than what I could possibly offer. Maybe, since McVee had said Shoshoni and Bannock languages were similar. I could take her to the Bannock camp and speak with the chief, offer a few cows and steers as her dowry. Maybe even a few horses. There had to be someone she would prefer over me. Some young Indian brave might catch her eye. Not that I'm particularly old, mind you – only 30 – but 14 or 15 years difference is a stretch – at least for me.

So, I was musing over the possibility of marrying Kopakashe off to a handsome Bannock brave when she excitedly called out my name, "Adam! Adam!" Ever since we'd left McVee's, she'd been calling me by my Christian name and I called her Kopakashe; it felt smooth on my tongue. I pulled up my horse, turned to look, and she had slid off her horse and was excitedly pointing toward the small lake that was visible through the trees. Kopakashe was prattling in Shoshoni about something, smiling, and then she lightly stepped through the trees and ran down the slight declivity to the lake. I dismounted and called out for her to come back – that it was just a lake. And I almost added, "and if you're good and well-behaved, I'll show you Lake Tahoe later." But she wasn't a child and even though she wouldn't have understood what I said, I realized that my perception of her needed to change even more. After all, I was thinking of marrying her off so I might as well get used to some man having carnal knowledge of her. But the idea didn't appeal to me – another man may treat her badly, mount her roughly – I pushed those thoughts out of my head. I'd consult with my father once we were home but if I allowed this diversion, it might be another hour or so.

I led the horses off the main trail and once in a shady spot, I dropped their reins. It had been a hot day, the morning quickly heating up, and I had long ago shucked my trail coat that was rolled up and tied behind my saddle while Kopakashe's leggings and blanket were tied into the travois bundle. Kopakashe quickly pulled her doeskin dress off over her head and waded into the water, turning to laugh and giving a mock shiver. The water was obviously cold.

I watched her small back and her bareness and felt a slight… well, I am a man and here was someone who I was struggling to perceive as more than a girl. But when she was in up to her collar bone in water and motioned for me to join her, I shook my head, no; I wasn't going to ask for trouble. Enough had already landed on my head without my behest.

She dove and turned smoothly onto her back, laughing and splashing. I had to smile. And I considered the water and the feeling of lightness and buoyancy when in it – I imagine that's what flying might feel like. I knew I stank. I don't know how Kopakashe could tolerate sleeping so close to me at night when all I had to do was move to smell the acrid tang of my own sweat and filth; I hadn't washed anything but my hands and face in two weeks. But, I considered, Kopakashe might think that since bears usually have a musky, wet-dog, piss type of scent, I was reeking as any bear in human form would. So, I sat down and pulled off my boots. It was such a sense of freedom. I decided I would wade in a-ways but just stepping in the coolness of the grass was wonderful; my feet hadn't been free of my boots for days. The water called to me. I stripped down to the bottoms of my long underwear and then walked into the water until it reached my waist. I splashed my arms, chest and face with the water and realized, as it swung out in front of me as I bent over, that I still wore the bear claw necklace.

"Weda', weda' – Adam, weda'," Kopakashe said, laughing. I knew that word, weda', it meant bear. I hadn't considered how my chest, arms and parts of my back were thick with black hair. I suppose I did look a bit like a bear and I had to smile. The sun was glittering on the water, causing Kopakashe's black hair, still in its plaits, to shimmer, but the red stripe down the part was washed away.

The coldness and lure of the water – or was it the beckoning Kopakashe – drew me further into deeper water and I dove and relished the feel of the surrounding water. And opening my eyes as the sunlight cut through into the deeper water, I could see Kopakashe's legs as she tread the water. I popped up a few feet from her and she laughed delightedly. I grinned; I felt like a kid again and wanted to grab her and spin her about in the water – to make her laugh, to make her happy and joyous – and then I heard the distinctive click of a ready gun – followed by a man's voice.

"Well, well, well. Now what we got here?" I swung my head about to look. He was crouching by my gun belt and although he wore a holster with a gun, he was using mine to hold on me. And I knew it was fully loaded.

Kopakashe swam up behind me, both of us treading water. I didn't turn to look at her.

"What do you want?" I was pretty sure I knew what he wanted but it seemed the give and take of being robbed or killed, to ask beforehand.

He chuckled still crouching, his hat brim angled low over his face, holding the gun on me – on us. "Well, I want whatever it is you got, squaw man. What's underwater as pretty as her face?" He smiled, having the upper hand.

"Take whatever you want from the travois but it's just a few clay pots, some food and furs. Take what you want and then just go."

He stood up. He was about six feet and wore the ordinary clothing of any cowboy, his hat being tan and sweat-stained about the hatband with small holes about the crown. Maybe he had just been to the Ponderosa looking for work, and for all I knew, was turned away. Maybe he was planning on heading there after robbing Kopakashe and me – I hoped that was the worst he would do to us.

And I knew I had been a goddamn fool. Because we were on the Ponderosa, I hadn't been as careful as I should have been, abandoning my gun on shore; I shouldn't have gone into the water like some tenderfoot, ill-versed in the ways of the west.

"I know what you got – I already went through everything, including your bedroll." He stuck one hand in his pocket and pulled out the jewelry pieces. Kopakashe made no noise, just placed one hand on my shoulder as if helping herself stay above water. He put the pieces back into his pocket. "And then there's this." He bent down and grabbing Kopakashe's doeskin dress, held it up. "I'm guessing she's naked as a new born pig, right? All rosy and pink in the right places And from the look of her little moccasins here, she's got small feet. I like small feet on a woman. Don't give me no woman with feet like meat platters and toes like fat sausage. Now, come walking in – both of you, and slowly. I wanna see her before I decide what I'm gonna do."

We stayed where we were and I tried to think of a way out. If it were just me, I'd slip underwater and swim to the far shore and take a chance - but there was Kopakashe.

"Now, I can just shoot you –" He held up the gun and aimed at me. "I can pull the trigger and you'll be just as dead as if I shot you walkin' to shore. Now come walkin' in."

I turned to look at Kopakashe and then began to swim in – her hand slipped from my shoulder and she followed me. Once my feet touched the bottom, I stood up. Kopakashe was behind me but it was still too deep for her so I reached behind me and pulled her next to me, slipping one arm about her waist. The cowboy watched, grinning.

When we were close to shore, my long johns plastered against me, I let Kopakashe go and she hid behind me. A few more steps and I stopped. I knew there was really nothing I could do against him. I felt as vulnerable as a pane of glass, as easily shattered, and no protection for the girl. But I had to try.

"I can't let you take her. Like I said, take whatever you want from us, but you can't have her."

He roared with laughter, slapping his thigh with one hand. And then stood, still grinning widely. "You're one stupid squaw man. You really think I give a shit what you think you can do? Now I don't like to kill anyone unless I have to so just tell that little ol' blanket to come to me and you can go on your way. Get yourself another squaw from them Paiutes – that is if I let you live."

A deep voice came from behind him and I recognized it immediately although the dappled shadows of the trees hid him.

"I don't like to kill anyone either unless I have to. So, don't make me have to, mister. Now drop the gun and then put up them hands."

I swear my bowels wanted to release, I was so relieved. I watched as the cowboy thought for a few seconds and then gently dropped my gun and held his hands shoulder-height. He was going to turn around but the voice ordered him to stay where he was and to lift his own gun out of the holster – with the opposite hand - and toss it in the lake. We all waited … and then he did as told and the gun splashed into the water.

"Make him empty his pockets," I called out. "He has her jewelry."

"Oh, hell," the cowboy said, not daring to turn around. "It's just some cheap Indian baubles. I got no use for 'em…" He stuck his hand in his pocket but the deep voice interrupted.

"You pull anything outta that pocket but them 'cheap Indian baubles' and you're a dead man. Understand?"

The man barely turned his head, hoping to see who was giving him orders. "Yeah, I understand. I understand…" he pulled out Kopakashe's bracelets, beads and earrings and dropped them on the ground. "There. That's all I got. Now what? You gonna shoot me or let me go?"

"You scared?" The voice from the shadows asked.

"Hell yeah, I'm scared! I did what you said, though. You oughta let me go."

"Seems that not only are you a thief," the voice said, "and mebbe a killer but 'round here, the worst crime a man can commit is trespassin' – trespassin' and horse stealin' - both are shot on sight -and you're trespassin' on the Ponderosa."

"I didn't see no signs. How the hell am I supposed to know where I am? Hell, all this country looks the same to me!" I walked closer to the man, Kopakashe on my heels. He was nervous, his hands itching to move and he shifted his feet uncomfortably.

"Now you walk slowly back to your horse. mister – I'm watchin' – and ride outta here. And you better hope I don't decide I need a little long-distance target practice and shoot you in your yellow back."

The man did as ordered and I saw Hoss step out of the shade and watch as the cowboy rode off. Then Hoss laughed and turned back to me. "Ran off like a scalded dog! I swear I didn't recognize you at first, Adam. I was stoppin' in to see iffen we had Indians down here who'd stolen your horse. Everythin's been tossed about – that travois unloaded – and whadda I find, some bearded jasper who looks like a salty buffalo hunter with his squaw swimmin' around in a lake on our property."

Hoss was talking to me as he placed his gun back in his holster, but he was puzzled, watching Kopakashe as she ran from the water and quickly slipped her dress back on. She kept looking at him with fear. I pointed and told her he was "Hoss", my brother. Kopakashe had learned the word, "horse" but that was all she knew of what I said, so she looked more puzzled than Hoss had upon seeing her. But she seemed to sense that he and I were on "friendly" terms as she relaxed and slipped her feet into her moccasins after brushing the dirt off her feet, moving closer to us to get her discarded jewelry.

"Am I ever glad to see you, Hoss. I had no idea how'd I'd pull my chestnuts out of that fire." I began to dress, pulling my dungarees up over my wet long johns. I scooped up my shirt. "I hate putting these filthy things back on." I could smell the stink as I slid my arms through the sleeves.

"Whew!" Hoss said, wrinkling his nose. "You almost smell worse'n I do for once. No wonder you went swimmin'. But tell me, older brother, how come I find you cavortin' with some buck-nekkid Indian girl? Why's she with you?"

I sat down and pulled on my boots. My gun still lay on the grass. "It's a long story and I'm only telling it once." I stood up and leaned over for my gun belt and hat. "So you're going to have to wait until the whole family's around. And I hope Hop Sing has something good for dinner 'cause I'm tired of eating trail food."

And I called to Kopakashe and we headed back to reload the travois – to attempt to create order out of chaos.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**First, I want to thank all of you who leave supportive reviews or even middling reviews. It has been an odd week with unusual comments from "guests" that I deleted. I believe the same comment(s) was sent to many writers. I haven't responded to any reviewers of the last chapter but just know I appreciate you - you inspire me to continue writing.**

 **A/N I took a bit of leeway with the use of** ** _Santa Lucia_** **. It was translated into the Italian before this time so it is possible that Adam heard it while back east – and he was a quick study! Anyway, grant me that poetic license but I wanted to use a song that any reader may have heard. I listened to it again on youtube – Enrico Caruso singing – and it brought tears to my eyes, his voice was so magnificent.**

 **Chapter 7: Dinner and a Bath**

I was on my third cup of brandy-laced coffee and it was warming my blood, filling me with a sense of well-being. Kopakashe was practically sitting in my lap on the settee, she was so terrified; it was all too much. Hop Sing had frightened her as he tried to proffer tea and thin vanilla cookies but then, she had obviously never seen anyone Chinese. His feelings were hurt when she covered her face with her hands and pressed against my shoulder as if that would shut him out; I well understood why many people felt that Indians were like children, to be led and patronized, but I also understood that like any other group of people, what is alien to them is confusing and possibly frightening – it didn't mean a lack of intelligence.

"Hmph!" Hop Sing said, frowning. "Missy no like tea – no like cookie – no like Hop Sing."

"She's just - everything's so new to her…" I tried to make apologies but Hop Sing wouldn't be placated; his back was up.

My father offered a few words of appeasement. "It'll be all right, Hop Sing. She doesn't care much for me either." And she didn't. But eventually her hunger overcame her trepidation and she did sip the hot liquid. Kopakashe stared at it after her first taste. Then took another sip. She appeared to like it and drained the cup and looked to me. Pausing from my story, I poured her more tea. After that, she poured herself two more cups and tasted the cookies which she appeared to like. If only Hop Sing had been there to see.

I sat on newspapers placed on the settee as my dungarees were damp from my wet long underwear; I wanted to get out of my clammy clothes but didn't know how I'd get away from Kopakashe. And I wanted to shave as my beard itched but my stomach took precedence. I could smell the roast pork in the oven, my mouth watering as I could already taste the crispy skin – my favorite part. And Hop Sing rubbed garlic over it before baking as well as sprinkling salt crystals. His slow-roasted pork was so tender that it practically melted in your mouth.

"So, that's it," I said. "It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I honestly couldn't figure a way out of it."

Joe giggled then and Hoss said something about a college education not being worth much out here if it couldn't help a man solve the problem of dealing with an itty-bitty girl. My father scratched his head and looked worried.

"I really don't know what to tell you, Adam. I know taking her to the Bannocks sounds like a good idea but she's Shoshoni, not Bannock. Just because she's Indian doesn't men she'd be accepted."

I rubbed my face. "I know, Pa, I know. They might take her and use her as a slave but, well, she is pretty, isn't she?'

Hoss smiled. "Dang pretty – 'specially from what I saw!" Joe giggled even more; Hoss had told about the incident at the lake.

"Well, I was hoping that being so…pretty, she might catch the eye of a Bannock brave or…okay, it's not realistic. But I just don't know what to do with her. I mean she thinks I'm her husband."

"Let's take things one at a time. Where is she going to sleep?" my father asked.

"Yeah, Adam" Joe said, his eyes glinting with mischief. "You taking your wife to your bed or is she going to curl up on the rug like a hound dog?"

"Shut up, Joe." But it had been worrying me, especially now that she was so anxious about being here. If only one of us could speak the other's language.

Hop Sing announced dinner but he was still miffed and didn't grin proudly when he brought out that glorious pork roast. There were also butter-roasted potatoes, green beans cooked with strips of hog jowl, and hot biscuits. And a bowl of rich gravy. I quickly filled Kopakashe's plate and mine and my brothers helped themselves. Until my father cleared his throat. Hop Sing stood beside him, frowning.

"And we can't give thanks?"

Hoss, Joe and I looked at each other and the put down our forks and knives and bowed our heads. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kopakashe looking about, puzzled. My father said his usual prayer to give thanks to God for all we had and about nourishing the body and the spirit and he ended with Hop Sing's favorite part, the only reason he stood so silently beside my father's chair: "..and bless the one who cooked this fine meal." Then we said, amen.

Kopakashe watched, not eating. "Go ahead," I encouraged. She was on my left side, Joe on her left. I used my fork and broke open one of the small potatoes, stabbed it and held it up on the tines. I moved it toward her mouth and she watched it coming closer and closer, backing up a bit. Joe giggled, covering his mouth but unable to suppress it completely. I ate the potato. I then stabbed the second half and held to toward her. She reached out and holding my hand, guided it to her mouth and took the potato in her mouth; she seemed to like it. She picked up her fork and watching me, she imitated my slicing or cutting.

"Adam, that ain't no way to eat taters. She needs to smash 'em with the back of her fork – like this." Hoss, using his fork like a giant foot, smashed the tender potatoes. He proceeded to ladle gravy over them – and his pork roast as well as the three split biscuits on his bread plate. "Now that's the way to eat taters."

"Why don't you just drink the gravy?" I asked. Joe laughed and my father smiled.

"Well, I would, but then older brother, there wouldn't be none left for you and your wife."

I felt cruel words come bubbling to the surface but swallowed them; I needed more brandy and went to the liquor cabinet and poured myself a glass. Returning to the table, my father looked disapproving.

Kopakashe finished her dinner, awkwardly using the fork although the spoon gave her no issues; the Indians used large, carved wooden spoons but only for cooking. We sat at the table and discussed her, whether we should ask Mrs. Shaughnessy to come by and offer any advice and how we could teach Kopakashe English. She had picked up a few words on our journey, but we didn't have the time for her to learn the language by immersion.

"You could teach 'er," Hoss said, his mouth full of potatoes. "We still got them primers from when I was learnin'"

"Obviously not _learnin_ ' much," I said, finishing my coffee.

My father interrupted, folding his hands and becoming serious. "Didn't Pastor Rowe do some Protestant missionary work with Indians before he came here?"

"I think he did," Joe said. "He said something about it when he was preaching against false gods."

"Yeah," Hoss said. "It was that sermon 'bout the Golden Calf. Don't let 'im catch you wearin' that bear claw necklace, Adam. He'll lecture you on the street."

My father started wagging his finger. "And his wife taught in the missionary school. I think they both speak some Indian dialect but I…"

"Now, wait a minute, Pa. I don't know about handing Kopakashe over to the Rowes. Its not that I dislike them – I don't – but they are a humorless pair."

Joe giggled. "Then they should be perfect. You said yourself this whole thing wasn't funny." Hoss guffawed at that and Kopakashe just sat, silent, not even aware we were discussing her very future.

"Well, I suppose that he takes his beliefs seriously. It's not as if we have many options." My father looked at Kopakashe. She sat so demurely and suddenly, I felt more protective than I previously had.

"He also believes in not sparing the rod. He might strike her or … what if they mistreat her?"

"Adam you're doing what you're always chastising me about doing – worrying about things that haven't yet happened. Why don't you take her into town tomorrow?" my father said. "Take her to Miss Wayland's dress shop and buy her a few things – whatever she might need."

"Her name is Kopakashe," I said, feeling angry for some reason. Hearing her name, she swung her head toward me.

"I know, Adam, but I also don't want her to know we're talking about her. Is that what you want, for me to call her by name?"

"No, I…" I crumpled my napkin and placed it on the tablecloth. "I need a shave and a soaping. And a good night's sleep." The brandy was blurring my edges and I wanted to sink into my down mattress and the obliviousness of slumber. But I should have known it wouldn't be easy. I headed to the washhouse, my shaving kit in one hand, my slippers in the other and my robe thrown over my arm. I told Kopakashe to stay inside the house. She didn't. She quickly found me and while I was putting wood under the cistern that provided the hot water, she entered and Hoss was right behind her.

"I tried to keep 'er from followin' you but other than grabbin' her up and tyin' her down, I don't know how I could 've."

I stood up. "I'll take care of it, Hoss. I'll let her stay while I shave. Maybe once she sees my beard gone, she'll realize I'm not a spirit bear in human form and leave on her own accord."

"I guess once she sees how damn ugly you are under all that hair, she'll probably run all the way back to her tribe and tell them how they was wrong." Hoss grinned. It wasn't often he got the last word with me but I just wanted to shave and bathe and go to bed.

"I hope so, Hoss. I hope so."

He left and I sat on the edge of the tub and lathered up. Then, using my straight razor, I carefully shaved off my beard. Finally, I wiped the residue away and she looked at me, her brows drawn.

"Well, what do you think?" I asked. She smiled and said something; it seemed as though she liked the beard gone and lightly touched my cheeks. Then she ran a finger down the cleft in my chin. "Well, I'm glad you like it but now you have to leave." I took her to the door and half way to the house. "Now, you go to the house and when I'm through, we'll get you situated for the night." I made a forward motion with my hands, shooing her away. She walked toward the house, stopped and looked back. "Go on." I motioned again and she walked to the front door and stood motionless. With a sigh – I was running out of patience – I walked to the house, opened the front door and gently pushed her in.

"Watch her, would you, Pa? I want to take a bath." He looked helplessly at me but rose from his chair, pipe still in his hand and smiled at her, motioning her further inside. I went back to the washroom, filled the tub with the hot water that sent out clouds of steam, and waited. She didn't come back in. I stripped out of the filthy clothes and cautiously lowered myself into the hot water, finally sliding down in the porcelain tub that had come all the way from Philadelphia and laying back, closed my eyes. It was hedonistic bliss.

I sat up after a while, having already soaked, and taking up the brush and the bar of soap, I began to scrub my skin until it turned red. And then I made my mistake – I sang a song I'd learned a few years ago - _Santa Lucia –_ and I sang it loudly.

 _Comme se frícceca  
la luna chiena!  
lo mare ride,  
ll'aria è serena...  
È pronta e lesta  
la varca mia...  
Santa Lucia,  
Santa Lucia!_

Stu viento frisco  
fa risciatare:  
chi vo' spassarse…

To my surprise, Kopakashe pushed open the washhouse door and was quickly by my side to listen to me sing. And my father was right behind her.

"Adam, you started singing and she took off. I don't know what to do. Drag her back to the house?"

"You know, Pa, I learned something from her." I stood up, the water dripping from me, and bent over to grab one of the stacked towels. I wrapped it about my waist. I heard my father's breath - a harsh intake. I picked up another towel to dry my hair and face and arms. "Being naked isn't that awful – it's liberating, to be honest. And if you don't attach any special significance to it like a prelude to sex, well, it's kinda nice."

"Not in my house, Adam. Not in my house." My father wagged his finger at me and I laughed. I laughed at his furrowed brow, his puritanical ideas, his outrage that I had stood up naked in front of Kopakashe who thought nothing of abandoning her doeskin dress to swim or crawl between the furs to sleep. I slipped on my robe, loosening the towel and stepping away from it as it hit the floor. "Don't worry about it, Pa. Nothing untoward is going to happen under your roof." I slipped my feet into my slippers. "And now, I'm going to get my guitar and sing a few songs to Kopakashe; she apparently likes my voice." And I gently took her arm and led her back to the house. The mess in the washhouse would wait until later.

One thing at a time, as my father said.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: A Trip to Town**

Don't ask me how I managed, but I convinced Kopakashe to remain in the guest room. I had brought in one of the furs we had slept under all those nights, and the blanket she had worn about her shoulders, and placed them on the bed. When I brought them in the house, my father protested. _Adam, you might be bringing in some infestation with that fur and that blanket. How clean are they?_ I told him not to trouble himself; the only thing dirty about them had been me when I lay under them.

Once I placed the fur and blanket on the bed, I guess it sent a signal to her and she smiled. I showed her the items on the vanity, the comb, brush, using them on myself. And she was fascinated by her reflection in the large mirror. She touched it with her fingertips.

"See how pretty you are?" I asked. She grabbed my arm and pulled me beside her, looking at both of us reflected in the mirror, and then at me and back again. Then she said something about me – I heard my name – and she smiled. I had to laugh then and she did as well. I can only imagine what she had said.

And this time, up in the guest room, I turned my back as Kopakashe pulled her dress over her head and I heard the slight creak of the bed as she lay down. There was something different about being back in the "civilized" world that made me more aware of the fact that she was a woman, far more a woman than a child. And I became aware – and embarrassed as well as ashamed – by my reaction to her. I needed to get her out of the house before something "untoward" did happen in my father's house.

When I turned back to say goodnight, I saw Kopakashe had made room for me, lifting the edge of the fur to welcome me. But I shook my head and told her – as useless as words were – that I would be sleeping in another room and would see her in the morning, and for her to "stay" - the way I would a dog. And she looked so sad when I left. I went to sleep with her face haunting me. What had I done by taking her away from all she knew? But, I convinced myself, I had had no other choice. None. And yet…there had to be something better than handing her over to the Rowes. But what that could be, I didn't know.

In the morning, when I walked out of my room, Kopakashe was waiting for me in the hall. She was sitting against the wall, her knees drawn up, but when she saw me, she smiled and stood up – and I had to as well. She was wearing her doeskin dress, her moccasins, all her jewelry, and her hair had been braided in one long plait down her back. It made her look…less child-like. And after breakfast, where she seemed less fearful of Hop Sing, I headed out to hitch the horse to the buckboard. We were going to town with orders to pick up a few sacks of oats for the horses and some chicken feed. I planned out our itinerary. First, after depositing Kopakashe with Miss Wayalnd in her dress shop – if I could make Kopakashe comfortable enough, I would get a haircut; my hair was curling about my ears and over my shirt collar. And then, the confectionary where, if enough ice had been delivered, ice cream would be on the bill of fare. I imagined how surprised Kopakashe would be with the dish, how delighted she would be with the delicacy of vanilla, the sweetness and the cold. I smiled to myself at the thought – she would probably think it was merely snow until it touched her tongue.

Many times, Kopakashe had watched me saddle and bridle my horse during our travels, as if memorizing the actions, and she watched while I hitched up the horse. I told her the horse's name, Ranger, and she ran a palm against his neck. The horse swung his head towards her and snuffled, pushing its muzzle gently against her. She smiled and spoke softly to it; the horse was as charmed by her gentle ways as I was.

It was a beautiful morning and we rode along, Kopakashe taking it all in. We passed a patch of primrose. I stopped the horse, pressed the brake and jumped down, Kopakashe calling to me, moving over to my side to watch me. I grabbed a handful of stems and uprooted them. Then, turning back, I twisted off the roots so that only flowers and stems were left when I handed them up to her. She smiled – and that was the reason I had done it – and once I was back in the seat, twisted off a few blooms and tucked them in her hair behind one ear. That made her more beautiful than all her jewelry. Then she smiled and placed a flower between my ear and the brim of my hat – and laughed. I did as well.

Indians - Paiutes and Bannocks - were often seen in town although it was usually an older, squat, woman selling lengths of beads or shells, or a few squaws sitting beside a pile of blankets for sale. The men were older and walked with their heads down, going about their business and trying to avoid any confrontations. There were many places they weren't welcome and signs outside many establishments stated it along with some crude caricature of an Indian. But I knew that as long as I was with Kopakashe, she was going to be allowed anywhere I went. The Cartwrights weren't a family to be trifled with – we had most of the land and most of the money and Carson City was only an hour or so further; we could easily take our business there.

I parked the buckboard next to the feed store. Kopakashe placed her "bouquet" on the seat and I helped her down – not that she needed any. She was as nimble as a deer. So, with Kopakashe padding along behind me, I told Mr. Henderson who had come out into the yard, to load up the oats and chicken feed and to also toss in a dozen or so bales of alfalfa hay; it wasn't often he had any. Henderson kept looking at Kopakashe and then at me.

"Adam, it's not for me to ask, but why the hell you got a flower behind your ear? Got anything to do with that squaw?"

I felt like a goddamn fool and I'm sure I blushed as my face went hot. I snatched the flower out and twirled it in my fingers.

"Just fill the order, would you?" And I handed him the flower.

I held Kopakashe's arm and guided her down the sidewalk. People looked at us oddly – me and my squaw - but I tipped my hat to the passing women and nodded to the men, a few saying my name as greeting as they nodded. I knew we would be a source of gossip but there was no avoiding it; better now than later.

And then Darla McMasters and her mother stepped out of the mercantile right in front of us. We almost collided.

I whipped off my hat, letting go of Kopakashe. "Darla, Mrs. McMasters, how are you?"

They stared at Kopakashe. Then Darla, who always was a level-headed girl, said, "Nice to see you're home, Adam. Have you been home long?"

"No, no. Actually, I just arrived home yesterday. I was planning on calling…but, well, I need a haircut and then…well, there is the Cattlemen's dance this Saturday and I was hoping I could take you, that you would go with me." It is indicative of how uncomfortable I was that I was talking without thinking; this wasn't the place to ask Darla to the dance.

"I don't know, Adam. You haven't yet asked me." Darla stood as if coming face to face with the man who was courting her, escorting a young Indian squaw was nothing out of the ordinary. She had a half-smile on her pretty face, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. I couldn't help but admire her honey-blonde hair, the waves piled up under her hat decorated with silk flowers and a dotted grosgrain ribbon. But Mrs. McMasters wasn't quite able to behave as if nothing was amiss.

"Adam, is this…squaw with you? Who is she?"

"Mother," Darla said sotto voce, turning to her mother, "if Adam wants to explain, he will. If not, it's not our business."

"But, Darla.."

"Mother, please." Darla turned back to me. "Are you asking me to the dance, Adam?"

That was my Darla – blunt, honest and to the point. "Yes. I would have liked to stop by one evening to ask you – maybe proffering a box of candy, some flowers, and spewing poetry – small bribes - but, time is fleeting and this meeting seems advantageous. Will you allow me to escort you?" I still held my hat in my hands, lightly bowing in feigned subservience.

Darla laughed. "I would be delighted, my dear Adam! But promise me one thing."

"Anything for you," I said, making a grandiose sweep with my arm.

"To get a haircut." She smiled that lovely smile of hers, and I told her that I planned on one that very afternoon. We confirmed the time I would be at her house, 7:00 pm, and she and her mother went on their way, her mother giving me a curt nod as she left, Darla, smiling over her shoulder and tossing her head. I knew I would eventually have to explain away Kopakashe but perhaps by the dance, Kopakashe wouldn't even be an issue.

But Darla seemed an issue to Kopakashe. She watched Darla and her mother walk away, their heads together, and then smoothed her own doeskin dress, pinching the skin between her fingers. She ran one hand down her long plait, pulling it over one shoulder, and then glanced back one more time to watch Darla. I gently pulled her on.

As we passed the Sazerac, I heard the loud laughter of the Bonner brothers; there was no mistaking it. I needed to talk to Jeff, the older of the two, about hiring on as head drover for our spring roundup. He knew his business, being taught it by his father and of course, where Jeff went, Rick went and they usually managed, now they were older, to stay out of trouble. Usually. And although my father didn't care for them – it went back to my younger days and my "running with them," we needed as many hands as we could hire; our herds had grown rapidly in the past two years and Hoss was only 22 and Joseph, just 16. Maybe Hoss could go along but not Joe. Pa would insist he stay home one more year before being exposed to something as rough and miserable as moving beeves for miles across dangerous, rough terrain.

"Kopakashe," I said, holding her by the upper arms, "stay here. I just have to run inside for a moment. I'll be right back." I put out my hands and backed into the saloon, then turned to find the Bonners. They weren't hard to find, pouring their own drinks from a whiskey bottle and laughing and joking with a barmaid who sat on Jeff's knee, his arm about her waist

"Well, Adam!" Rick called out. "Sit down and have a drink. Barkeep! Another glass here for my friend!'

"No, thanks anyway, I don't have time." I crossed my arms. "I just want to know if you two would sign on for spring roundup; we need to move our combined herds to Abilene and, Jeff, we need a head drover." I wanted to do this quickly, before they drank themselves into a stupor and forgot everything we'd discussed.

"Now, Adam, we know your Pa don't…what the hell?" Jeff was looking toward the swinging doors of the saloon and Rick did as well, their brows furrowed. I knew what they were looking at and I slowly turned. Kopakashe was on tip-toe, holding onto the double doors and looking into the saloon.

"Look, just think about it, okay? I'd like your answer now but…"

"Adam," Rick Bonner said, dropping his chair down to all four legs, "I think that little ol' Indian gal's looking for you. You have a squaw now?"

I was about to answer when I heard a voice that was in some odd way, familiar.

"Well, well. If it ain't that stinkin' squaw man."

The saloon became silent. I turned and a cowboy had stepped away from the bar. Although I hadn't really seen his face at the lake, I recognized the clothes – and his voice. Why couldn't this have just been a nice, uneventful trip to town? Why this?

I crossed my arms high on my chest to show I wasn't going for my gun, and slowly tuned about to face him. I didn't want trouble, didn't want a gun fight. I was relatively fast but I had no idea how fast this stranger was – perhaps faster – and I didn't want to die – not today. Well, not tomorrow either or the day after that, but especially not now. The cowboy stepped out into the center of the saloon and those who might be in harm's way, scampered. Even the Bonners stood and pressed themselves against the wall and the barmaids scampered into the back storeroom. The barkeep slipped out the swinging doors and glancing that way, I saw Kopakashe watching, her eyes large. I wanted to take her away from this as quickly as possible, before the cowboy saw her.

"Look," I said, "let's just forget the whole thing – no harm done - you go back to your drink and I'll go on with my business."

"No…I think I'm gonna kill you, mister. I don't like Indians any and I don't like you – especially since you have a squaw. That's a bad combination in my thinkin'." His right hand hovered over the holster. "Now, face off."

"Look, mister,…" But it was hopeless. I wondered what would happen to Kopakashe if I should be shot through the heart. Would she mourn? Or would she, once I was dead, head back to her tribe, glad to be shed of me?

I stepped out to face him. Looking a him, I saw he was smiling, seemingly sure of himself. And my heart was thudding in my chest.

"C'mon, squaw man! My hand is itchin'."

He was waiting for me to pull first so it could be self-defense but I didn't care to. So, I waited and that infuriated him.

"Pull, you goddam, stinkin' Indian-lovin', squaw man!" he yelled angrily. He was no longer smiling and before he could move – or I did – Kopakashe slipped into the saloon. I saw her and I must have given her away with my eyes because he turned slightly but before either he or I could do anything, Kopakashe had picked up a half-empty whiskey bottle and smashed it upside his head. The glass shattered into bits, whiskey splattering, and the cowboy fell over onto the floor. Kopakashe, the neck of the bottle still in her hand, leapt on him and before she could jam the jagged edges of glass into his neck, he turned slightly, throwing up an arm to fend her off, and she ground the jagged edges into his cheek. He screamed in pain. I grabbed Kopakashe about the waist and pulled her off of him.

She spouted invectives, curses at him while I held her off the ground, her legs and arms flailing while she stabbed the air in his direction with the bottle neck. I carried her to the doors, everyone staring, the man, moaning. I managed to back out, but when I turned about, I came face to face with a surprised Sheriff Coffee followed by the barkeep who quickly stepped back into the saloon.

I placed Kopakashe on the sidewalk and pulled the bottle neck from her hand, blood on the edges. "Look, Roy," I said as he stepped inside to look. I looked back in as well and a few men were helping the cowboy up off the floor and to a seat while a barmaid arrived with a towel. Roy turned to me.

"I thought you were in the middle of a gun fight. Elmer caught me on the street sayin' you were going to be killed by some passing saddle tramp and what do I find? You with a little squaw holding a bloody, broken bottle and a man inside pouring blood like a stuck pig. Now, you stay right here, Adam – her too – until I find out what's going on."

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N Before I wrote this chapter, I researched Indian Boarding Schools of the 19** **th** **century and the early attitude toward the treatment and education of Native Americans. The attitude toward Kopakashe expressed by the Rowes was culled from that research and is accurate to my knowledge.**

And thank you to all my readers for your supportive comments; I'm glad to know it's of interest to some. Unfortunately, I will be deleting all guest reviews - positive or negative.

 **Chapter 9: The Visitors**

"Great Caesar's ghost, Adam! Will you stop tellin' me what I can and cannot do? I think I know my job better than you, although you seem to think otherwise. Doc Martin's stitching up that cowboy's cheek right now – those cuts went straight through his cheek and hit his teeth! And if he chooses to press charges, then I _will_ arrest her and she _is_ going to sit in my jail. And if you want to sit outside the cell and hold her hand through the bars, well, you're more than welcome."

I have known Roy Coffee for years and have respect for him — he's crafty and knowledgeable about keeping law and order and never backs down, but sometimes he was just stodgy and stubborn. I felt this was one of those times. "But, Roy, you can't…okay, okay." I put my hands out in surrender; this wasn't the way to approach Roy. "I know you can do as you like.." Roy's eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth lowered. I had to change tactics. "I know you do what the law says you must, but Kopakashe doesn't understand our language, our laws, and she's so young."

"I didn't see that not understanding English interfered with her trying to kill that man. And how old is she? Doesn't look too young to me." Roy craned his neck, leaning a bit to see Kopakashe huddling behind me.

"Well," I said looking at Kopakashe, "she's about 16 – 17." I suddenly realized Kopakashe was a year, at most, younger than Darla McMasters; for some reason, it surprised me. "Look, Roy, you should arrest that cowboy instead of her. He tried to rob us. We were at a swimming lake on the Ponderosa and he…" I stopped. Roy was watching me closely – his eyes, narrow; I knew he was more astute than people guessed and I felt myself get flustered – had he seen my true feelings that I hadn't yet faced?

"Did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Did he rob you?"

"No – Hoss came along and sent him packing. But if Hoss hadn't… and he was going to force himself on Kopakashe, said how he liked small women."

"Did he?"

"Did he what?" I was becoming annoyed with Roy; he couldn't seem to grasp the whole situation.

"Did he force himself on her?"

"He never got the chance. Like I said, Hoss intervened but he had every intention of killing me and assaulting her!"

"I can't go around arrestin' people for their intentions – they have to commit a crime and whether you like it or not, that little squaw did."

"But, Roy…she was defending me. She thought I was going to be killed and…"

"How do you know she didn't want to smash his skull out of revenge. After all, she was there when he allegedly tried to rob you and assault her? Maybe that was her intention and since you think people should be arrested just for their intentions…." Roy had a slight smirk, thinking he'd caught me. He hadn't.

"Because she didn't understand what he had said. That's how I know it wasn't her intention."

Roy chuckled. "Okay, okay, Adam." Roy pursed his lips and rocked back on his heels, his hands folded on his belly. "Take her back to the Ponderosa – that is where she's staying, I take it?" I replied she was. "Don't bring her back into town. If that cowboy decides to file charges, well, we'll take it from there."

I considered there would be no dress-shopping today nor a haircut nor any ice cream but realized that Roy was offering me a way out – offering both Kopakashe and me a way out. "Fine, Roy. And thanks." I held onto Kopakashe's arm and started to guide her out the doors.

"Adam." I stopped and turned. "She Paiute?"

"No. Shoshoni. Why?"

"I was wondering why she was with you if she was Paiute. Seems she could be returned to the tribe."

"If she were Paiute, I'd get Bruno's wife to translate and befriend her but there aren't any Shoshoni this far south of Utah territory that I know. Pa thought the Rowes might speak a near dialect – he couldn't remember."

"That's right. Rowe was a pastor at a mission school and didn't his wife teach?"

"Yeah. My father suggested I take her by there today…" I had no intention of taking Kopakashe by the Rowes despite my father's idea, but Roy Coffee didn't have to know; let him feel bad for making me take her away.

"Tell you what," Roy said. "I'll ask the Rowes to go out to your place either today or tomorrow. That way you don't have to bring that little gal back to town anytime soon. Unless of course…"

"I know, I know. Unless there are charges." And I pulled, more than led, Kopakashe out the door and to the grain store where I hoped my order had been filled. I just wanted to get back home.

~ 0 ~

Hop Sing knew how to provide an afternoon tea to do Queen Victoria proud. But the only guests were Pastor and Mrs. Rowe.

Roy Coffee had been true to his word and about 1:00 that afternoon, the Rowes pulled up in their little buggy. It was shabby, the black canvas head worm through on some spots and faded, but then pastors aren't paid much and Pastor Rowe was averse to vanity; many things could be made "to do" as he had said while we were re-roofing the parsonage. But I had argued that old shingles couldn't be made to serve the same purpose – that was why they were being replaced. The only thing they could be used for was firewood. I used to wonder why he annoyed me so much. Then I realized that the man had no sense of humor, no sense of delight – none—and that made it difficult for me to communicate with him. If you can't find humor even in misery, then what's the point of having intellect? Better to be a dumb beast.

And Mrs. Rowe was no better in that regard; her mouth constantly pursed in some sense of disapproval of joy; happiness would be found in heaven and we toiled on this earth only as preparation for our heavenly home – according to her. But she was kind and tried to live her faith. I can't fault a person for that.

When they had arrived, I was going over pictures and words in Hoss' first primer and Kopakashe seemed delighted when we came to something she knew such as the horse or the picture of a chcken. The book had the letter of the alphabet and then a picture of something that started with the letter such as, A and then an apple. The only thing that gave me pause was the "I" as it had a crude rendition of an Indian. When we came to "I", she became serious and placed her small hand on the page and looked at me, asking me something. I didn't understand. Then, with one hand on the picture, she placed the other on her breast, her eyes questioning.

I didn't know what to do but I took her hand off the picture and placed one hand on her shoulder. "No. Kopakashe - woman." She tilted her lovely head. I slapped myself on the chest. "Adam - man."

She laughed with delight, placing her hand on my chest. "Adam – man." I nodded, laughing. Then she placed her hand agin on herself. "Kopakashe – woe-man."

"Close enough," I said and turned the page to "J". Then the doorknocker sounded and Hop Sing came out to answer the door. It was the Rowes and my father, who had been watching the lesson while he smoked his pipe, welcomed them and sent Hop Sing to prepare a little something for our guests - despite their politely declining. I gave my place on the settee to Mrs. Rowe and leaned on the mantle, waiting.

"Oh, Adam," Mr. Rowe said as he sat down across from my father, "Sheriff Coffee said to tell you the cowboy packed up and left town. I don't know what it means, but he said you'd know." I thanked him.

Mrs. Rowe haltingly spoke to Kopakashe and Kopakashe replied; they seemed to be able to communicate. Mrs. Rowe, by asking some questions, prodded Kopakashe to talk, though not as eagerly as she had talked to McVee. My father wanted Mrs. Rowe to verify McVee's interpretation of events and to ask Kopakashe where she would like to live, if she wanted to be taken back to her tribe or anywhere else.

Kopakashe finished talking just as Hop Sing came out holding a large silver tray loaded with fine china and a small sponge cake, thick slices of walnut-raisin-molasses rum cake and jam sandwiches – on white bread, the crusts removed and more than likely, tossed to the chickens to peck apart. That was quite the treat – white bread - and I smiled at my father "putting on the dog", as they say.

Mrs. Rowe talked, gently, the way one spoke to a child and every so often, Kopakashe would glance up at me as I stood waiting. I watched Kopakashe's face grow more serious, her smooth brow furrowing in concern. Then she shook her head and said something rapidly to Mrs. Rowe who only smiled benignly and patted Kopakashe's hand. Kopakashe pulled her hand away as if stung and hid it behind her back. Then she rose from the settee, looked at me, and walked out. I started to follow her but reconsidered. It's like when some insects have bitten you and all day you've been trying to get at the maddening welts; all you want is to be alone, strip off your clothes and scratch away. Kopakashe wanted to be alone. I did go to the window and watched her walk to the barn and sit on a bench to think. I went back to our company but this time, I paced, watching Mrs. Rowe pour, slice the cake and portion out the sandwiches and rum cake.

"Adam? Cake? Tea?" Mrs. Rowe asked.

"No. Nothing for me, thank you."

"My goodness," Mrs. Rowe said after tasting a sandwich. "This is quite the treat! Why I haven't had white bread in … I can't even remember!"

"Must have been back home," Mr. Rowe said, digging into the rum cake with the side of his fork; I wondered if he knew that it contained spirits, if he recognized the taste. "I think," he said, swallowing, "that it was at our wedding. Yes, I do believe that was it. Why that's…"

"Over 23 years," Mrs. Rowe said.

"Mrs. Rowe," I said, waiting until she swallowed the next bite of her jam sandwich, "what did you and Kopakashe discuss? She seems…distraught."

My father, spoke – with food in his mouth - something he never does and is constantly reprimanding all of us for doing, but he was in a hurry to speak. "Allow Mrs. Rowe to finish eating first, Adam." It was then he noticed I was wearing the bear claw necklace. He mimed having something about his neck and pulling it off. I played dumb, shrugging, as if I had no idea what he meant; I wasn't taking it off for the Rowes – or for anyone.

So, I waited while the three of them chatted about unimportant things such as the weather, the Cattleman's Dance, and raising membership in the church. I listened as the pastor preached in our living room against dancing which tended to promote loose morals. For that reason alone, he couldn't allow church dances, even to raise badly needed funds for the many charities.. But bake sales, now that was another thing! Many people would buy a cake or pie and food only served to nourish the body to house the soul.

"After all," I said, "gluttony isn't as bad a sin as lust, is it?" Silence fell in the room and my father finally cleared his throat.

Mrs. Rowe placed her plate on the low table and balanced her tea cup on her knee. "I noticed you're wearing a… what type of claw is it?" She made a gesture to her bosom.

"Bear claw. Kopakashe gave it to me. I think it was, in her beliefs, a wedding gift. Or do I have it wrong?"

"No, you don't" Mrs. Rowe seemed to gather herself and then began. The story Kopakashe told Mrs. Rowe was basically the same as she had told McVee only McVee hadn't been judgmental, unlike Mrs. Rowe.

"So, you see, Adam, her belief that you're…it's too absurd to even think someone would believe such nonsense, but she believes you're some bear spirit in the form of a man and that you're her husband. I told her you're just an ordinary flesh and blood man and that her beliefs were wrong. She didn't accept that and told me that you were a bear, that you alone protected her people and that she was bound to you.

"I asked her if the marriage had been consummated." I bristled at that and Mrs. Rowe must have noticed because she rapidly began to talk again. "She didn't understand and I didn't want to be vulgar but she finally did and told me that it hadn't. After all, that would make a difference in both sets of beliefs. I told her that in our world, her marriage to you meant nothing since it wasn't consecrated and that she was no more your wife than I was. That's when she left. I didn't want to be cruel but, well, Adam, Mr. Rowe and I worked for many years with the Indians – a clearing house of sorts of all different tribes. Our purpose was to wean them from their own beliefs and rituals and teach them the better ways of the white man and the Christian. After all, Christians don't go about slaughtering each other simply over a disagreement of beliefs. We hope to create peace and harmony."

"I see," I said. "And how to do you explain the Crusades then? I mean we do sing Onward Christian Soldiers in church."

"Adam," my father said. "Why don't we listen to what the Rowes have to say without interrupting." My back was still up but I agreed, and yet my hands were in fists.

Pastor Rowe spoke in that droning voice of his. "Adam, Indians are like children and need to be treated as such; they don't have the faculties to know what is best for them but we do, having worked with them before and seen many miracles among our red brothers and sisters. They are children of God like all of us and need to be shown the way to salvation. The problem is they are limited in their intellectual ability and need to be led – they are spiritually blind. They must be shown that our ways are better and adopt our clothes which can be washed. Indians tend to smell bad so we must teach them the rudiments of hygiene. They are also promiscuous, not knowing the sanctity of a union in God's eyes. But most of all, they must be shown God's love, the sacrifice of Christ and the promise of eternal life. Often, that requires scourging and harsh punishments and consequences for reverting back to their pagan ways. And that is why we would like to deliver her to the Albuquerque Indian School where her soul will be saved."

My throat filled with rage. I couldn't speak and fought the urge to grab the pastor up and show him the back of my hand. But instead, I stalked out. I walked across the yard to Kopakashe and sat beside her. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry about Mrs. Rowe and…" Kopakashe looked so forlorn that I put my arm about her. She leaned against me and reached up and touched the bear claw necklace about my neck, running a few of the large claws between her fingers. Then her hand slid across my chest and she hugged me. We clung to each other. I didn't care what the Rowes or my father would say when they saw us; I was all she knew, me and her Shoshoni beliefs and the Rowes believed it was best to take her away from both. And maybe they were right.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: The Cattleman's Dance**

When the Rowes came out of the house with my father, Kopakashe saw them and ducked into the barn. I almost followed her but to what end? I couldn't ask her what was upsetting her and although I had a good idea, I couldn't do more than I had already done. I rose and went to see them off, standing beside my father; I shoved my hands in my back pockets – it made me feel more in control for some odd reason.

Mr. Rowe took up the reins and before snapping them, he said, "We would be happy to escort the young Indian to the school. She would make many friends living there, and in a year or so, would be happier with the realization of God's love. She would probably marry a nice Christian man as well. Just let us know and I'll ask a friend of mine in Carson City to hold services in my absence; we can leave at the drop of a hat."

My father said he would most certainly be in touch and I said nothing – I didn't trust what I might spew at the two of them.

"They're good people, Adam, good people." Then he looked serious and asked me about the message from Roy, what it meant. So, I told him. All of it. He shook his head. "Adam, I know she seems a pretty young thing – innocent - but she is an Indian and, well, her tribe isn't like the Paiutes or Bannocks who've lived alongside us for years. From what you said, her tribe sounds like nothing but a group of pillagers and murderers. Those behaviors are ingrained from childhood. She tried to kill a man, for God's sake!"

"Pa, she had good reason and if I'd been pushed, I might have been the one to kill that cowboy – or he, me. I would think you'd see how she saved my life by acting. Besides," I added with a slight smile, "I like a streak of wildness in a woman – makes for an exciting time under the sheets. Don't you agree, Pa?" Part of it was true; I did like a woman who nipped and tussled and bucked like an unbroken horse, but the other part was just to bait my father. And he always snapped at it.

"Adam…you can't be thinking…I would think that since you're courting Darla.." My father shook his head and walked back into the house. It hit me then that I had no idea what Darla McMasters might be like under the sheets. We had kissed, of course, and she had sighed in my arms but things never went further than my lips on the pulse of her throat. What did Darla look like under all the petticoats and flounces? Would she be coy and wear long gowns to bed that limited access to her? And how different would Kopakashe be who had no concept of modesty? What would I really prefer in a life-long companion – a well-brought up woman with manners and gentle affection or a fierce, tan-skinned woman who could wrap herself about me like a vine?

I pushed those thoughts from my mind and the seriousness on the situation with Kopakashe washed over me like a wave. I looked toward the barn and considered finding her but decided what I really needed was a good stiff drink.

The whole afternoon, Kopakashe was silent and set. When Hoss and Joe returned from the herds, they tried to cheer her up, Joe clowning around and then building a house of cards on the low table. Kopakashe sat on the floor beside him and watched. Hoss presented her with some flowers growing on one side of the barn - yellow daisies. She did smile a bit but didn't adorn herself, just clasped them in one hand.

At dinner, Kopakashe didn't eat. I thought it might be because it was fried chicken. The thick, crispy crust hid the fact the meat was chicken although the shape of wings and drumsticks was obvious. I cut my piece open and held it up to show her. I ate it but she turned her head and still didn't even pick up a fork or a biscuit or even her glass of milk. She ate nothing and after the meal, went up the stairs. I pulled out my guitar and began to strum, hoping to draw her back but her ears were closed to me and she disappeared from sight.

I was worried. Years ago, when I was young and impressionable, my father and I stopped at McVee's trading post. It looked just about the same then as it does now only his wife was alive. The road in front was rutted by the many wagon wheels that had passed that way; many of the homesteaders went to McVee's for goods and tins of crackers and rice and flour as there weren't many towns in the area yet. And wagon trains on their way to California made McVee's one of their stops. But there was a lull in business and only my father and I were there.

As was common, McVee told of the news, who had been through lately and any gossip about the army posts and Indian uprisings. And about the seemingly strong will of Indians. I listened as he told of how Indians often die for no other reason than they choose to. It seemed that once they had it in their mind that they were better off dead, they neither ate nor drank but sat and waited for death. It was their strong will that caused it.

That had stayed with me and now I considered it regarding Kopakashe.

"Adam, that's ridiculous. I grant she may be upset by what Mrs. Rowe said to her but she's too young to want to end her life. I'm sure in the morning, she'll be hungry and eat breakfast."

I wasn't so sure. And in the morning, she hadn't come down.

"Where's that little gal?" Hoss asked, shoveling scrambled eggs onto his plate.

"I'm not sure," I said. And then the hair on my neck prickled; she might be gone, having taken of in the night. "I'm going to make sure she hasn't left." I rose from the table but my father spoke and I paused.

"Would it be so bad if she has left?" He waited for me to answer, Joe and Hoss silent. But I didn't say anything, just took the stairs two at a time.

I knocked on her door, and hearing nothing, opened it, my heart pounding, but she was there, sitting cross-legged on the bed, her woven blanket about her shoulders. Her doeskin dress was lying neatly across the foot of the bed; her jewelry on it in a pile. Her long, dark hair flowed about her shoulders and she was staring at the far wall as if transfixed, never turning her eyes to me.

"Kopakashe," She seemed not to hear me. I went and sat gingerly on the side of the bed. "Kopakashe." It was as if she wasn't there and in her place was a smooth statue carved of burnished wood. The sun slanting in the window glistened off her hair and cast shadows that emphasized her sharp cheekbones. "Kopakashe," I said louder. She gave me no acknowledgement so I reached out and held her chin, turning her face toward me. She looked me in the face then and her chin and lips quivered.

"Kopakashe, I wish you understood me and that you could tell me what's troubling you so much you won't eat?" She said nothing, did nothing. I knew it was what Mrs. Rowe had told her that had upset her and caused this reaction – but then I didn't really know everything Mrs. Rowe had said to Kopakashe. Not that I thought Mrs. Rowe would outright lie in summarizing the conversation, but she may think it prudent to not reveal everything. But I knew that Kopakashe understood this word as I spoken it many times – "Please, Kopakashe. Please."

And then she began to talk, rapidly and earnestly, tears trembling down her cheeks. I understood "wede' " – bear – and a few others, one which I thought might mean man or husband – "nadainape' "- but otherwise, I understood nothing and she saw. Then she stopped talking, dropped her head and timidly reached for one of my hands. She drew it to her brow and then, took it to her lips and kissed it. I was stunned.

"Kopakashe, I…" I didn't know what to say after she released my hand and looked to me with sad eyes. "I don't understand…" I felt helpless. But by my account, she hadn't eaten or drunk since noon yesterday and that was my main concern. "Eat." I mimed putting food in my mouth. "You," I said, pointing at her, "eat food." Nothing but a stare. "Please." I placed a fist flat on my chest. "Please." Suddenly she rose and threw her arms about my neck and I held her next to me, her blanket falling over my arms. She was so small, her waist so narrow I could have snapped her in two like the stem of a wineglass. Kopakashe uttered desperate words, by their tone, and then she released me from her tight embrace and placed her hands on my shoulders, smiling tenderly. I gently pulled her hands away and keeping my eyes on her face and not letting them drop lower, I pulled the blanket back up about her shoulders. "Now, dress." I swept up the dress and held it out to her. She took it and I stood, motioning that she should come downstairs. She must have understood me because a few minutes later while I anxiously waited at table, avoiding my family's questions, she came down in her dress and moccasins, her hair pulled back and held with a leather thong.

And she sat in her usual place and watched while I filled her plate with eggs and sliced ham and toast. She smiled, placed one hand on mine and said a word before she began to eat. And I wondered then, just to what I may have agreed.

~ 0 ~

This time, I kept Kopakashe out of the washhouse during my bath, but she sat on my bed, watching me shave. When I slapped on witch hazel afterwards, Kopakashe held out her hand. I poured a bit in her cupped palm and she smelled it, smiled and then put her palms together and slapped it on her cheeks in imitation of me; apparently, she liked the smell. I hadn't the haircut I had promised Darla so I used more pomatum to keep the curls – which Darla often called "boyish"—from falling over my ears or forehead. Kopakashe watched with a critical eye.

She cocked her head curiously like a scrub jay that perches on a fence, as I tied my tie and ran a brush over my dress boots but when I shrugged on my dress jacket, pulling my shirt cuffs out the bottom of the sleeves, she became excited and ran from the room. That was my chance to escape.

Hoss and Joe were still dressing for the dance, but I was in too much a hurry to see Darla to wait for them. If Darla had heard about the fight in the saloon – and gossip in Virginia City jumped from person to person like a wildfire does from tree to tree – I'd have to smooth things over before she was allowed out of the house with me; her father might be barring the front door holding a shotgun with me in his sights. I checked myself out in the mirror again and stopped to splash on some bay rum before I put on my newly-brushed hat. Then I headed to the barn.

Earlier, I had saddled my horse and Kopakashe finding me there, pulled her little appaloosa out of the stall by its halter.

"No, no." I grabbed the horse's halter. Kopakashe looked confused. "I'm not going anywhere yet and this evening, you and Pa are going to practice English and a writing lesson. Okay? Now…" I took the halter rope away from Kopakashe and led the horse back to its stall. "You can watch if you want, but you're not going anywhere. I have a date with a certain Miss Darla McMasters and can't bring you along. Sorry." Although Kopakashe was confused, she just watched me finish saddling and then smiled when I guided her out with my hand on the small of her back.

Now I headed to the barn in earnest but inside, Kopakashe had a bridle on the appaloosa and had placed the saddle blanket on its back. She was struggling with the heavy saddle as she tried to lift it high enough to place on the horse's back. The horse wasn't too tall but the saddle weighed about half of her.

"No, Kopakashe, no." I jerked the saddle away from her and placed it back on the saddle stand. I was losing patience and I must have sounded sterner than I intended because as I told her she needed to stay there, her face became expressionless. "Look, I'm going to town for a dance." The words failed to provoke any reaction. "Dance." I moved in a tight circle as if holding a woman, replicating the steps of a quick waltz. "See? I can't take you with me. You stay here." She said and did nothing, just stood in the barn. I checked the saddle cinch on my horse and then, leading him outside, mounted up. Kopakashe came out of the barn and watched me – her face like polished stone. Then I touched my hat in farewell and rode out toward town. I imagine she watched me as long as she could but I never looked back. And my mind was troubled but I shirked it off. I had lived up to my responsibility with Kopakashe, fed her, given her a safe place to sleep and was seeing to her education. Nothing more was required of me – nothing. Just as I had done my Christian duty with the injured Shoshoni brave, so I had done with her. Nothing more could be asked of me - nothing.

Mrs. McMasters was cool toward me as I waited for Darla to come down and looked disapprovingly at my hair.

"I could have sworn you said you were going to get a haircut the other day when we saw you in town."

I sat on the edge of an extremely uncomfortable chair, my hat in my hands, while Mr. McMasters stared at me over his paper.

"Yes, ma'am, I had said that but my plans quickly changed." I tried to smile but I'm sure it looked more like a grimace. I wondered if Darla had been told to delay coming down until her parents set things right with me.

The rustling sound of paper being folded attracted my attention and Mr. McMasters placed his paper on the table beside him. He leaned forward which wasn't easy considering his pot belly, and cleared his throat. "I heard, Adam, that there was a fight in the Sazerac between you and some drifter and that the squaw Darla and Mother saw with you, tried to kill the man. Is that true? Mother and I thought it only fair to give you a chance to refute a lie or, if it's true, to explain it."

I stood up which seemed to take them both by surprise. "What you heard is true. There is nothing to deny or alter. Now, if Darla is ready, I'd like to walk her to the dance. If you disapprove my taking her, then please tell me." I waited and then I heard Darla's lovely voice as she came down the stairs in a yellow dress with a bunch of artificial flowers at her waist. She was strikingly beautiful, her honey-colored hair crimped and piled high with small yellow roses tucked in at alluring spots among the curls, She had a lace shawl about her shoulders

"Mother, father, please do stop questioning Adam." She smiled as she came to me and slipped her arm through mine. "We shan't be late and even if we are, rest assured that I'm with Adam and well-protected." She smiled up at me. "Shall we go, darling?"

I knew the "darling" was for her parents' sake; Darla rarely used endearments but then, neither did I. We were well matched, she and I. I detested hypocrisy and pretense and so did she. So, with an uncomfortable "Goodnight, you two. Have a nice time," from her parents, Darla and I walked toward the social hall in the middle of town.

"Adam," Darla said, "I would like to know about the squaw you were with. I realize you don't afford me any explanation and I try not to question you about anything that's not my business, but I think this is my business. You don't know what a time I had with my parents today, my father swearing he would lock me in my room before allowing me to go out with… forgive the phrase but it's what he used – a 'squaw man'. He thinks you may have taken her as your…Adam, it all seems so sordid. Please tell me it isn't."

We stopped and faced each other. In the falling darkness, I searched Darla's face. She was earnest.

"Darla, it's so extraordinary…suffice it to say that I'm responsible for her. I saved a Shoshoni brave and she was – their thanks."

"Their thanks! You mean she was given to you?"

"No, not so much that but, well, she can't return to them or…" I considered. "It would bring them shame. Pa and I are looking into Indian schools for her."

"Schools? She didn't look like any school girl to me."

I was irritated. I sighed before I spoke and put a smile back on my face. "Darla, let's just go to the dance and talk later – when we're alone." And right there in the street, I kissed her.

Darla ducked her head and looked about. "Adam, someone might see us."

"Then we had better go, hadn't we?" I slipped my arm about her waist and led Darla down the street toward the sound of the cheerful music.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: The Unexpected Guest**

The Chinese lanterns strung outside the social hall and the rows of wall sconces inside, lit the place up and gave the night a festive air. The flames of the donated candelabras lighting the refreshment tables and reflecting off the crystal punch bowls and cups, made the whole scene appear as if some grand affair were taking place - a reception after a wedding or the celebratory party after a successful campaign. It paled of course, next to the grand parties I attended back east but I was younger and more easily impressed then and memories tend to embroider events. Not so anymore.

"I'm with the loveliest girl here," I said to Darla as we danced about, her skirts swaying with her steps. She moved easily and responded to the slightest nuance of guidance from me; she followed my lead with no problem. And she looked up at me and replied that she was with the most handsome man in all of Nevada. I had to laugh at that; I knew I wasn't but if she thought so, what more could I want?

I heard a slight commotion at the door, the excited voices of young girls, some only 12 or 13, and turned to see Little Joe enter the room, followed by Hoss. Joe barely had time to unbuckle his gun belt and hang it and his hat by the door before he was led onto the dance floor. Most of those girls had to be home by 9:00 and that didn't give them much time to work their way into Joe's affections. Hoss grinned at the flurry of skirts and petticoats and bouncing ringlets and bows. He glanced at the hopeful young women who sat against the wall, waiting to be asked to dance. But then he spied the spread of cakes and pies, the mountains of cookies and the little rolls stuffed with meat. And grinning wider, Hoss headed for the tables lined up end to end across one wall where matrons and dour spinsters served the punch and sliced the cakes and pies.

"Joseph is quite the ladies' man, isn't he?" Darla said, amused by the furor he caused. "I wouldn't be surprised if Meggie and Charlotte come to fisticuffs over hm!" She laughed lightly. "How old is he?"

"16 – almost 17 - and has quite a high opinion of himself."

"Well, with all those girls hanging on him, I can understand why. Hmm. He's almost my age – not much younger." Darla looked as if she was calculating.

"Don't go getting any ideas about you and Joe," I said, but I wasn't serious and couldn't help but grin when Darla blushed.

"Oh, Adam! How could you even think I could be interested in your baby brother – or anyone else." I smiled than and kissed her temple. "Adam, people will see. You really shouldn't."

"See what? How absolutely beautiful you are? That should be obvious to everyone. Maybe I'll kiss you again."

"Oh, Adam…you're incorrigible."

The waltz ended and we applauded the musicians while Hoss came over to us with a plate piled high with pastry, a napkin tucked under it.

"Evenin', Darla. Don't you look pretty tonight?"

"Well, thank you, Hoss. Did you bring anyone?"

"Just Little Joe but he's kinda busy. But he promised to save the last dance for me." We all laughed and then the fiddle player, Mason Jacobs, came to the forefront and said that it was time for a square dance and that Hawley Michael was going to call. People applauded – me included. Hawley usually did the calling, even hired out and we had paid him many a time to call square dances on the Ponderosa. Hawley made a person listen since he called quick turns and direction changes whenever he was in charge; his repertoire, slightly different each time, even calling for switches in partners. But the mistakes some dancers made – anticipating the next movement - was a cause for laughter and not a serious concern.

Couples began to move into squares and I asked Darla is she cared to dance but she answered she would rather have punch.

"Have 'im get you some of these cookies too– they's mighty tasty."

The music started and Hawley began to call and those who weren't participating, watched, clapping their hands in time to the music and seemingly regretting, from the smiles and laughter, that they hadn't formed a square.

"I'm sure they are, Hoss," Darla said, raising her voice above the raucous music, "But I wouldn't have any room."

I fetched the punch, a cup for me and one for Darla. I didn't care for punch unless it was spiked with a splash of whiskey or brandy – too sweet for my tastes. But I sipped it and we three talked, the music cheery, the laughter filling the room. And then, the voices seemed to lower to a murmur like a wave going out, and the music slowly stopped, the fiddle being the last – and then it fell silent as well. I turned when Hoss smacked my arm, his mouth too full of cake to speak. It was Kopakashe.

She stood partly in the room, looking about. I saw her and I swear, I was so overwhelmed at the sight of her, that my throat closed to keep back tears. She was dressed in the blue ditzy-print blouse and the light blue skirt we had bought at McVee's, the clothing she had hugged to herself and was so happy to own. The blouse was at least two sizes too big and the skirt dragged the floor. She was keeping the waistband up by tying the straps of her leather medicine pouch as a belt of sorts. She was wearing all her jewelry, the strings of beads and shells, her long looped earrings and the silver bracelets. And there must have been hairpins in one of the small boxes on the bedroom vanity because she had attempted to pile her hair up in imitation of a white woman's hair style. But the ride over had dislodged part of it and her long, dark hair hung in loose loops in odd places. She finally saw me and smiled, her face joyous – glowing with happiness. I imagine she thought she looked beautiful and believed I would agree.

"Adam" Darla said, clutching my arm. "That's the Indian girl who was with you, isn't it?"

"Yes," I croaked out. My voice wouldn't work, my throat wouldn't function. Kopakashe walked toward me, smiling. She wanted so much to please that it touched my heart as nothing else ever had before. And then a man laughed. Another snickered and then another. The women turned aside, not knowing what to do or say, and Kopakashe stopped, and looked about, sudden doubt on her face. She stopped and put a small hand to her bosom. Then a man's voice rang out, "What's a stinkin' squaw doin' here?"

Fury – rage - rose in me like a leaping flame. The blood pounded in my head. How dare they laugh at her? Insult her? I wanted collapse the walls and destroy them all as Samson had the Philistines.

"Hoss, see Darla home." I handed my punch glass to Hoss and turned to Darla whose mouth dropped open in surprise. "I'm sorry, Darla. I'm taking Kopakashe back to the Ponderosa. But first…"

I walked to Kopakashe who was on the verge of panic. I slipped my arm about her waist and pulled her out onto the floor. "Hey, Mason, how about a lively tune?" And Mason, grinning, started up the fiddle, the other musicians joining in, and although Kopakashe had no idea how to follow a man's lead, we managed, although she had to hold up the hem of her skirt with one hand so as not to trip on it.

Only a few couples joined us, and Joe made one of them after pulling a reluctant Meggie Watkins onto the floor. Kopakashe was happy, smiling, looking up at me with pure joy - and that was all that mattered. I was determined that if anyone else insulted her or said anything unkind, I'd take him down – maybe even a woman, I felt that protective.

~ 0 ~

"I don't know, Pa. I just…they laughed at her and so I…I left Darla there for Hoss to see to."

After the one dance, I took Kopakashe home. My father came out at the sound of the horses and was obviously relieved, saying he was glad I found Kopakashe, that she had gone and he had had no idea where. My father said he had searched for her but when he saw her horse was gone, he assumed she had left for good, although her doeskin dress was in the guestroom along with the blanket and fur.

 _You thought she took off her clothes to ride about like Lady Godiva?_

 _I didn't know about the other clothes – you never told me, you know. And what was I supposed to think? Joe and Hoss had already left and I did consider she may have gone with them, but they wouldn't take her anywhere, especially off to town, without telling me. And then there was the matter of the clothes left behind – I couldn't make heads or tails out of it._

Kopakashe stood beside me as I unsaddled the horses and put them away without brushing them, watching me with adoring eyes. And when I turned to guide her out, she hugged me, leaning her head against my chest and wrapping her arms about me. I held her and we stood in the barn and I wondered if she had understood what had happened in town, especially when she looked up at me in the semi-darkness and spoke what sounded like endearments. And I cupped her chin in one hand and said, "What am I to do with you?"

But now, Kopakashe was upstairs, hopefully asleep, but I was too upset and paced while my father sat, smoking a pipe.

"You do have a problem, Adam. You need to apologize to Darla. Seems you were so concerned about Kopakashe's embarrassment that you forgot about Darla. How do you think she feels being left behind while you walked out with Kopakashe? You'll be lucky if she forgives you."

"I know, Pa, I know. After the fight in town the other day which damaged my reputation with her parents, and then tonight, I won't be allowed at the McMasters. I think I'm in for a bad time. I'm hoping I can talk to her after church tomorrow and convince her to forgive me."

"I'm not one to condone skipping church, but it wouldn't be wise to take Kopakashe; I think you should stay home with her."

I sighed. "You're probably right but I have to explain things to Darla."

"Adam," my father said, gesturing with his pipe, "are you in love with Darla?"

His question caught me off guard. "What? Why do you ask that?"

"Because you've been courting her for almost a year now. She's a lovely young woman and I think she loves you – at least it seems that way to me. But do you love her?"

I considered. A few years back, I thought I was in love with a local girl but when her father gave me an ultimatum, either marry her or leave her free to marry another, I backed out. And I was surprised that, although I missed her as she was bright and cheerful with pink cheeks and a laughing mouth, I soon lost the urge to see her – she didn't stay in my heart. I attended her wedding but she seemed sad to see me there and turned her cheek to me when it was my turn to kiss the bride.

"I don't really know, Pa. Of all the girls in town, Darla's the only one I want to be with. If that's love, then yes, I love her. How else does a man know he's in love?"

"What if you and she were irretrievably broken? What if what you did tonight was more than Darla could ever forgive? How would you feel at the thought of never seeing her again, of kissing her or touching her? How would you feel?"

"That's a little personal, don't you think?"

"You asked me how a man knows. Love is a personal subject."

I walked over to the mantle and leaned on it, holding onto it with both hands and looked at the low flames. More wood would have to be added if my father was going to sit up waiting for Hoss and Joe.

"How did you know that you were in love with my mother?" I asked, staring into the flames.

"Because after meeting your mother and spending three weeks courting her, when I left her to go out to sea again, I felt that my heart would break. The thought of perhaps dying at sea and never seeing her again, brought tears to my eyes. If I hadn't been on the deck with other men, I would have sobbed in despair. I even fought the urge to leap overboard and swim back to her – I would have done anything to be with her. I gripped the ship's rail as if my very life depended on it. Your mother's the main reason I gave up the sea to follow the 'will-o-the-wisp' of the west – a foolish dream, in actuality. But my heart would have surely broken, shattered, if I ever had to leave her again. And her death…I was an empty man for months after that, as if I'd been gutted."

I stood still and wondered how I would feel standing on a ship heading out to sea and watching Darla fade as the land slipped further and further away. There was a slight catch in my breath. I needed to be alone.

"Pa, go on up to bed. I'll wait for Hoss and Joe. I want to ask Hoss what happened after I left anyway." I opened the wood box and stacked two pieces of split pine on the flames, squatting to watch them catch with the flames licking about them.

"Okay, Adam. I think I will." I heard him knock the ashes out of his pipe and then stretch and yawn. His boots sounded on the steps but stopped. I stood and looked at him. "While you're thinking," my father said to me, "something has to be done with Kopakashe. She can't stay here – you know that. If you agree, tomorrow after church, I'll tell the Rowes to take her to Albuquerque to the Indian school. I think it's for the best."

"I guess you're right, Pa, but if only she understood what was happening...that's the worst part. It's like…don't misunderstand me, but it's like shooting your horse after it's done for use. It looks at you with trusting eyes not expecting the bullet in the brain. And that's it, Pa. She trusts me. And she wanted so hard to be beautiful tonight, or what she thought was beautiful."

"Then you think she loves you?" He looked at me with his brows raised. My father and his Socratic approach; it always frustrated me.

"Loves me? I never really…" I'm ashamed to admit I hadn't actually considered our relationship. I assumed, up to that point, it was akin to parent and child, but it hit me – Kopakashe wasn't a child at all. It had been her small stature, the double plaits that small schoolgirls wore that gave her the air of extreme youth. And maybe – and this makes me ashamed – maybe I have a touch of bigotry and had never considered that Indians felt the same way as the white man, that they can fall desperately in love, want to join with that person and please them.

"The Rowes can come Monday. Tell them to come Monday and I'll have Kopakashe ready." And as I turned back to the fire, the flames rose even higher.


	12. Chapter 12

**I have finished...at last. Thank you to my readers who let me know I was writing in a void. There may be typos as I only edited it once - I can't go over it again until some time has passed and I have some distance.**

 **And let me repeat what I wrote at the top of Chapter 9, all guest reviews, both positive and negative, will be deleted.**

 **A/N It seems that some readers are confused by the implied resolution at the end. It my be necessary to give this chapter a close reading in order to understand.**

 **Chapter 12: The Journey Begins**

"You two are home earlier than I expected." I closed the book I had been trying to read – trying because my mind escaped the page and ran elsewhere, to Kopakashe and the dance – and Darla. Hoss and Joe came in, and slowly unbuckled their gun belts as if overcome by lethargy, taking time to roll up the belts before placing them on the long credenza by the front door.

"Yeah," Hoss said, taking off his hat, "the dance ended earlier than 'spected."

"How much earlier?" I noticed a purple bruise on Hoss' left cheekbone. Once Joe removed his hat, I saw a large bruise on his jaw bone and what looked like a split lip with blood on his collar and shirt front.

Joe gingerly touched the tip of his tongue to his lower lip. "Right after you left, actually. Where's Pa?"

"Upstairs sleeping. Kopakashe too. What happened to you two? Looks like you've been in a fight."

" 'Cause we have," Hoss said, sitting heavily on the settee. "Right after you and Kopakashe done left, Judd Brinson – you know what a horse's ass he is – told Darla she was lucky to learn in time that you prefer the taste of a squaw better'n a white woman. And he said that right to her face with a nasty smirk. There was nothin' I could do but shut 'im up right then and there."

"That miserable sonovabitch," I said. "What about Darla, Hoss? What did she say? Did you see her home?"

"Now, Adam…." Hoss screwed up his face.

"You didn't."

"He didn't really have time. I mean, we were fighting – a whole bunch of us, not just me and Hoss – and before we knew it, Roy was there hauling all of us into the backroom. No one pressed charges against anybody else, but Roy said that from what he could make out of what everybody said, Hoss started it. Hoss said Judd started it and Roy said we were all acting like kids and he was sick of it."

"Anyway, since Judd had been drinking, had a flask on him, Roy arrested him for public drunkenness and told the rest of us to go home. Then we had to stop by Doc Martin's to get him to sew up my lip – bled like a mother! Got all over my shirt." Joe lightly tongued his stitches again. "These are going to drive me crazy."

"Did Darla say anything at all?" I asked Hoss.

"She never got a chance to, Adam. But she didn't look none too happy while you sashayed around with Kopakashe. Anyway, I'm worn out. I'm goin' to bed."

"Me too," Joe said. "I need to fortify myself before Pa sees us in the morning and gives us that lecture about representing the Cartwright name and how he doesn't want it to be associated with rowdiness, and all that. He'll probably not let me go to town again until my next birthday. I might as well become a monk. 'Night Adam."

I sat alone, mired in guilt. I had deserted Darla. She had to find her own way home and by now, her parents had been told the whole thing, probably by a weeping – or a furious Darla. And if she hadn't been up to telling them out of protecting me – which I didn't see happening - they would soon find out just as they did about the incident in the saloon. I would be done for as far as they were concerned. I could hear Mr. McMasters saying, "If you think I'm going to let my daughter keep company with you after what you did, after abandoning her and taking off with some Indian girl, well, Adam, you have another think coming."

I turned down the lamps and with one last look at the dying fire, went upstairs. My bedroom door was closed which surprised me but maybe Hop Sing turned down the sheets before he left for his relatives in Chinatown. I opened it. I was startled to see someone sleeping in the bed. I stepped closer and it was Kopakashe, her face peaceful as she hugged the pillow under her head, her long hair lying in sharp contrast to the white linen sheets.

Was this what I had agreed to? Had I promised Kopakashe that we would share a bed, share our bodies with one another? Weariness overcame me. I was so tired. If only she and I could understand each other and not have to rely on translators. What was lost in the process? What subtleties, nuances?

I slept on the settee and was haunted with dreams that vanished upon awakening but left me uneasy. The world seemed somehow off-kilter, off its axis. Nothing was right.

That Sunday morning, my father, Joe and Hoss left for church with the promise that Mr. and Mrs. Rowe would be informed of our decision to send Kopakashe to school. I looked at Kopakashe who silently sat on the settee, only showing a slight reaction to the name, Rowe. She watched me the whole time to see if I was leaving with my family but I made it a point to go no further than the door to see them off.

Even though Kopakashe must have known I hadn't shared the bed, she dutifully ate breakfast while my father lectured Joe and Hoss about fighting, his finger wagging in their directions, swinging back and forth form one son to the other. He reluctantly admitted that Hoss did need to defend Darla but to start a brawl, well, that was another thing; Judd Brinson could have been dealt with another way. Joe and Hoss kept exchanging glances and I silently ate while Kopakashe looked puzzled. I was thankful Kopakashe didn't understand English. I can only imagine the questions she would have asked.

The day was sunny so, after my family left, I took Kopakashe outside. She was wearing the blouse and skirt from the dance, looking like a small child playing dress-up in her mother's oversized clothing. I suppose, since she disrobed in my room the night before, she put them back on to come downstairs.

"C'mon," I said, grinning, putting out my hand. Kopakashe smiled back, joy lighting up her face, and took my hand with hers. That she could be so happy just to be with me, amazed me. I don't know if she still believed I was a "spirit bear" in human form – for some reason I doubted it – but she liked being with me. It may have been only because she knew me the longest and had to depend on me. But then I didn't know what went through her mind.

We followed a path I had made as a child when I would escape the house over an upsetting situation, running so fast that my lungs felt they would burst and the stitch in my side was almost crippling – I had to leave my sadness behind. Once Marie, Joe's mother, was with us, I escaped almost daily – every chance I could. I found her silly and coquettish and vain – always primping and adjusting her blonde curls. I told her once that vanity was a sin and she turned and looked at me, surprised. And my father gave me the back of his hand.

It was a narrow path – pounded out with only my feet - and most of it had been overcome with grasses, but I instinctively knew the way. After about twenty minutes of walking, it emptied into an open meadow; the trees still hadn't encroached on it. A small stream, bubbling and coursing about rocks and the little bends of the landscape, cut through one end. And the whole area was covered in a variety of wildflowers – spiderwort that hadn't yet closed from the afternoon sun, blood-red poppies, white-flowering yarrow, purple lupine and yellow columbines.

Kopakashe was delighted and skipped among the flowers, finally falling down among them. I laughed and realized I had been smiling the whole time I watched her. I was glad she was happy. I wanted today to be happy for both of us; I felt it would mitigate my later guilt.

I went and sat down beside her and she sat up, plucking a columbine and tucking it behind my ear. She said something and laughed. I laughed as well. The bees carried on their business, not paying us any mind and on occasion, a butterfly would dance about us.

"You know, if I were going to build a house, I always felt I would build it here." She watched me as if she understood everything I said. "I used to sit here when I was upset or had been punished – my pa had to apply his razor strop to my backside quite a few times growing up. But I wouldn't cry in front of him – wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Instead, I'd run out to this place, tears pouring, and then I'd throw myself down in the grass and sob – at least when I was young. When I was older and he'd punish me, I'd feel this rage in my chest that built and built and threatened to explode inside me. Then once I was here, I'd sit or lie on my belly and look at the beauty around me - no matter what season, this place is beautiful - and plan where I'd build my house. See, I'd have the front windows looking this way, the far stream behind the house. Now, over there—" I pointed and she looked, "I'd put the barn so nothing would disturb this carpet of beauty. What do you think? 'Course, I'd have to make a road through those trees but that wouldn't be too much trouble. Take it out about a mile or two and join it to the main road to town."

And I talked. I lay back down among the tall grasses and she lay beside me. I told her about my mother's death, the trip west with my father, about Inger, Hoss' mother and how she was killed by an arrow. And I talked about Jean DeMarigny and his widow Marie De Vaille, who became my second stepmother and Joe's mother. And I told her about college, what it had been like and what I had studied.

I don't know why I talked so much but it was as if I couldn't stop. I told Kopakashe things I had never shared with anyone. I considered that it was because she didn't understand me and therefore, couldn't judge me as I hadn't always behaved honorably. But when I thought on it, it was because I wanted to tell her. I wanted Kopaksahe to know who I was so she could determine if I was worth her seeming devotion. But it couldn't happen.

Finally, I was talked out and it seemed a weight had lifted; talking had been a catharsis of sorts, revealing my darkest thoughts and admitting my sins. I was the penitent and she the confessor. We lay in silence for quite a while and I felt myself becoming drowsy. The breeze blew lightly across my skin and I closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep because I felt Kopakashe's small hand lightly shaking me and I jerked awake. The sun was lower in the sky and I calculated we had been out there for at least four hours. It was time we returned to the house.

~ 0 ~

I saw the Rowe's beat-up buggy in the yard. I paused for a moment and Kopakashe asked me something. I didn't look at her, just pulled her forward to the house. When we stepped inside, Mr. Rowe stood, still holding his coffee cup, and smiled. Mrs. Rowe smiled as well and approached us, putting out both hands to take Kopakashe's, but she put them behind her.

"It's all right. C'mon." She and I sat on the settee.

"We were wondering where you were," my father said. He seemed relieved; I imagine he hd been offering scenarios for our long absence. "Coffee?"

"No," I said. Kopakashe moved closer to me.

Mrs. Rowe sat down beside us after picking up a wrapped parcel.

"These are for you." She held them out to Kopakahse who stared at the brown paper parcel tied with butcher's twine. "Go ahead, take them." Then she said something in Indian dialect and Kopakashe looked at me.

"What did you say to her?"

"I told her it was a new dress, a white woman's dress and that you wanted her to wear it."

"But that's not true – I never said that."

"Well, wouldn't you like to see her in it?" Mrs. Rowe looked injured – not comprehending why I was angry.

"Not particularly and don't put words in my mouth. Do I need to doubt your version of conversations you two have? Basically, you lied to her."

"No, I didn't," Mrs. Rowe said, a shocked look on her face. And my father cleared his throat as a form of reprimand to me, but those days when my father ruled me were long gone.

"Adam," Mr. Rowe said stiffly, "a lie is meant to deceive. Isn't it your wish that Kopakashe…" She shot a sharp look to him at the mention of her name. He took a deep breath, exchanging looks with his wife and then continued, directing his gaze back at me. "Isn't it your wish is that she become integrated into our culture, that she learn our ways and live a peaceful, Christian life? If so, isn't it your wish that she dress like a white woman, not a heathen? It was our understanding you did. My wife is only expressing what we both believed was in your heart. If you've changed your mind, please let us know. We aren't here to cause conflict but to help a lost, damned soul."

"First," I said, fighting to keep my tone under control, "there's a difference between being integrated and indoctrinated. And as for being damned, well, she's a better person than most of the Christians I know."

"Adam," Mr. Rowe continued, "it's the belief and acceptance…"

"Look, I said, putting up my hand to stifle the sermon that I knew was coming, "I don't want to debate theology but this Indian school may not be the best thing…" I looked at Kopakashe sitting in our house; she obviously didn't fit in. Staying here wouldn't benefit her. And yet, the thought of her leaving… "No, I haven't changed my mind. I'm sorry, Mrs. Rowe, about calling you a liar. I hope you'll forgive me – I didn't understand and I know that translating is never an exact art. All I ask is that you don't attribute any words or thoughts to me that don't come out of my mouth."

"Of course, Adam. What I'm going to tell her is that we are taking her to New Mexico to a school where she will learn English and be given clothing and hats that white women wear. She'll make many friends and learn the wonderful ways of our Father in heaven. I'll also tell her that it's your wish she come with us. Is that acceptable?"

I hesitated. I felt like a man who's placed the barrel of his .45 in his mouth and hesitates pulling the trigger. The man may want to die but there's a certain finality about it that would have to be considered.

"Yes. That's acceptable."

Mrs. Rowe talked and as she did, Kopakashe would turn to look at me, expressionless. I hoped I knew what Mrs. Rowe was saying, that she hadn't deceived me for a "greater" purpose, and I felt the weight of Kopakashe's future lie heavy on me. I feared it would plague me the rest of my life like a fog blurs what's ahead. I left the room, going out on the porch; I couldn't stay.

I sat out front and Darla came to mind. After the Rowes and Kopakashe left, I'd try to regain order in my life. Yes, I concluded, once Kopakshe was out of my life, Darla could be won over again - if I had even lost her. After all, she was there at the dance, she saw the situation. And I considered the tenor of an alternate situation; what if it was Darla who was being sent away?

What if her parents decided to send her to her aunt who lived in either Philadelphia or Baltimore…or was it St. Louis? I was never interested enough to bother remembering. But if Darla were, if she were boarding the stage, being spirited away, would I go after her and pull her off the coach and into my arms, covering her lovely face with kisses? If I couldn't, would my feelings mimic those of my father's when he sailed away from my mother, leaving her waving tearfully on the wharf? Would my heart break into small pieces? I pictured Darla, in all her beauty and charm and thought of the kisses we had shared, the caresses and soft words – the unspoken promises of her body. Could I spend my days with her, go home to her, anticipating the night with desire? And if I was denied Darla, would my heart break?

I sat out there, I suppose, about an hour. Long enough for Hoss to get home from town. He joined me on the porch.

"Where's Joe?" I wasn't really interested but Hoss sensed my mood and hadn't said anything, just offered his solidarity.

"Oh, Meggie invited him to supper. Seems with those stitches, he's not only a good-lookin' boy but a little bit of a badden. You know how them young, gigglin' girls are. They like them roguish types."

I had to chuckle at that and the probable dinner conversation, how Joe would entertain Meggie, her young brother and sister and both her parents with the embellishments he would add; Joe was quite the storyteller.

"See the Rowes are here. They takin' her away?'

"Yeah."

"Guess it's for the best. Can't see us dealin' with a little Indian squaw who thinks she's your wife." Hoss waited but I said nothing. "Course, iffen you wanted to make it legal…I mean she's old enough. Coralee Robinson was what - 14 I think, when she and Jason married? And then Doris Canfield, well 'member how Pastor Higgins refused to marry 'em 'cause she was only 12? They had to go searchin' for a minister to hitch 'em."

"If you're trying to make me feel better about tossing Kopakashe to the wolves, it's not working,"

"Well, leastways, you can find a bit of comfort with Darla, that is iffen she don't scalp you 'stead of Kopakashe doin' it. Darla is a pretty one, isn't she?"

"Yes."

We sat in silence and Hoss leaned back in the chair, resting against the wall on only the two back legs. It's a tribute to the carpenter and the quality of the wood that the back legs didn't snap under his bulk.

Another half hour or so went by and I became increasingly uneasy. I should go check and see what was happening and just about when I was ready to, the front door opened and the Rowes, my father and Kopakashe came out. She wore a pink cotton dress that almost fit her and her hair was pulled into a small chignon at the nape of her neck. She could have passed for a white woman except for the sharp angle of her cheekbones and the blackness of her eyes with their slight exotic tilt. Her face was as smooth as the time she sat on the bed, waiting to die. She wouldn't look at me and I can't blame her. I had betrayed her, at least in her eyes.

"You're going now?" I stood, my hands hanging useless by my side. Hoss stood as well.

"We felt," my father said, "that the sooner they left, the sooner they would arrive in Albuquerque."

"You don't plan on going all that way in that buggy?" I don't know why I felt so angry; now my hands were closed in fists and it seemed I struggled for breath as I had so many years ago running blindly down the secret path.

"Of course not, Adam. The Rowes know what they're doing. You needn't worry."

"Don't patronize me, Pa – I'm just concerned. That's rough travel."

Mr. Rowe, his voice which thundered from the pulpit, now became like syrup. "We have the itinerary planned. And we trust in the Lord to deliver us safely."

I said nothing more. My father helped Kopakashe into the buggy and added her small bag of belongings in the boot. I knew that the Rowes or the people at the school, would burn her doeskin dress and moccasins and confiscate her jewelry. They planned to change who she was and remake her in their own image.

It became more difficult to breathe. "You okay, Adam?" Hoss asked. But he sounded far away.

"Godspeed," My father said as Mr. Rowe took up the reins. He stepped back as the buggy made a circle in the yard.

I could hear my blood pounding in my ears – I felt as if underwater. And then Kopakshe turned and looked at me. And at that moment, I knew what to do next to save my soul.

Because my heart shattered like glass.

~ Finis ~


End file.
